


Smoke and Mirrors

by papercutperfect



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/F, M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercutperfect/pseuds/papercutperfect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When newly paralysed Charles meets Erik in a coffee shop, a fit of nerves prompts him to project himself standing without need of his wheelchair. It all backfires when Erik asks him out on a date, forcing Charles to deepen his lies and, ultimately, face his fears.</p><p>Written for the first <a href="http://xmenreversebang.livejournal.com/">X-men Reverse Bang</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaMcb24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaMcb24/gifts).



> Please go and check out my amazing artist [AnnaMcb24](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaMcb24/pseuds/AnnaMcb24)'s masterpost [here](http://old-fiat.livejournal.com/6383.html)! Her work is truly amazing and deserves more love than just me pawing at the screen.
> 
>  **Thanks:**  
>  **-** To my wonderful artist and beta, [AnnaMcb24](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaMcb24/pseuds/AnnaMcb24). I couldn’t have written this without you, Anna. Thank you for the gorgeous art and the concrit and the cheerleading and the title and the sobbing.  
>  **-** A massive thank you to everyone at the xmenreversebang and xmrb_support communities for all of their hard work, support, and epic modding.
> 
>  
> 
> **References:**  
> [Sex after spinal cord injury](http://www.streetsie.com/spinal-injury-wheelchair-sex/)  
> [Sexuality for Men](http://www.christopherreeve.org/site/c.mtKZKgMWKwG/b.4453431/k.A0C5/Sexuality_for_Men.htm)

  


**Chapter One**

_‘So bittersweet, this tragedy won’t ask for absolution;_ _this melody inside of me still searches for solution.’_

 

The bath water had long since bled cold, a frigid chill that bit deep into Charles’ submerged hands and the bare flesh of his waist. Goosebumps prickled his abdomen, blazed paths up both forearms to scatter over his shoulders and neck, mingling amongst red-brown freckles already painted there. 

Below that, where most of his lower body vanished beneath the still surface of the water -- 

there was nothing. 

A numb void where his legs were hidden from view by a cloud of slowly dissolving bubbles.

Charles stared blankly at the patterned wall tiles framing the faucets, their ceramic surface damp with condensation. Somewhere outside the bathroom he could hear Raven pacing anxiously up and down the corridor, her fluffy slippers doing little to muffle each scuffing footstep. The nervous murmur of her thoughts played a constant background hum;

_‘-been in there ages-’  
‘-maybe I should check on him-’  
‘-the water must be freezing by now-’_

Charles sighed softly, blowing the tips from a few foam icebergs. Raven wasn’t used to him spending so long in the bath these days. His usual routine consisted of little more than a quick scrub-down that only passed the ten minute marker when he needed to wash his hair, in and out before most of the bubbles had even burst. 

Today was different. An anniversary of sorts. He’d been sat in the tub for a good forty-five minutes, listening to the quiet fizz of foam mixing with the muted drone of Raven’s TV turned low next door. 

Before all of this - before the ‘accident’ - Charles had spent hours at a time in the bathtub, soaking in near-boiling water with a good book held above the surface and a cup of tea or scotch balanced on the thickest part of the porcelain. Morning, noon or night --it didn’t matter which-- routinely topping up the hot water whenever goosebumps threatened to rise. Raven remained ever thankful that they’d been smart enough to buy an apartment with two bathrooms. 

That all seemed so far away now.

Funny to think that exactly six months ago it would have been so easy to lean over and fiddle with the faucets for the comforting gush of hot water, or simply turn the metal tap with his foot and wriggle back into mounds of fluffy bubbles, neck flush with the lip of the tub.

Now - now there was only the uncomfortable press of a plastic bath-chair keeping his back straight, the jarring and terrifying reminder that he could never again climb in or out of this god forsaken bathtub without some kind of assistance. 

Charles finally tore his eyes from the dripping wall tiles, gazing slowly around the room as if taking it all in for the first time. It didn’t look like his bathroom anymore, the perfect bathroom in the perfect apartment he’d bought with Raven six years previously. 

They’d had to make some adjustments: double handrails beside the toilet; a sink installed low down on the wall. The mechanical arm of the [hoist](http://i.imgur.com/8rGSU.jpg) loomed over the side of the tub, holding Charles neatly in place on a plastic chair half submerged beneath the water. Flick a switch and it would automatically lift him free without need of a second pair of hands, water dripping from convenient holes in its seat.

Then there was the chair, of course. _His_ chair. The chair he was going to be sitting in for the rest of his life. Parked obediently by the side of the tub like an overgrown, metallic puppy, sleek and silver with a padded rest for his neck and electronic controls to get through tight spots without catching his fingers on the wheels. 

Choosing the right wheelchair had been one of the most surreal moments of Charles’ young life so far, barring the accident itself. Sat awkwardly in a chair rented from the hospital’s physiotherapy department, forcing himself to smile and ask the salesman enthusiastic questions about the pros and cons of electric vs. manual, when all the while he’d felt like he was watching himself from the outside in, screaming at the top of his lungs behind sheets of splintered glass.

A small knock on the door jerked Charles from his thoughts with a small start. He must have been deep in daydreams not to hear Raven’s approach. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” His sister’s voice was carefully veiled, “You’ve been in there ages. I’m-”

_‘-worried about you-’_

“-making some tea, if you want some?”

Charles tipped his head back as far as the chair would allow, dragging a wet hand through his hair. “Yes, please. I won’t be much longer.”

Raven cleared her throat, careful nonchalance no match for the flutter of anxiety in her tone, “…Do you need a hand?”

“No, thank you.” Charles’ voice remained calm, though his teeth were gritted as he replied, “I’ve got it.”

The whole point of getting the bath hoist had been to give Charles that little snatch of independence he so sorely needed at this point. The first few weeks after getting home from hospital had been pure hell; stiff and cumbersome in his chair, not quite knowing how to correctly manipulate the wheels or reverse through doorways. Moving from chair to couch or chair to bed quickly stole the breath from him, the wiry strength he‘d accumulated in his legs from years of morning jogs useless to him now. Such taken-for-granted movements became an exhausting daily struggle. 

It was so infuriating to need Raven to reach things down for him. Teabags and cups were moved to a lower shelf where he didn’t need to interrupt his sister every ten minutes for a caffeine fix. In fact, everything seemed to be kept lower nowadays: plates and bowls were stored in an allocated cupboard by the sink; most of the food in the refrigerator had somehow gravitated to the last two shelves; his favourite books were carefully arranged on the bottom of the bookcase. He couldn’t remember if these things were his own subconscious doing, or if Raven was silently rearranging the house when he wasn‘t looking.

But getting in and out of the bathtub… now that had been a special hell all of its own. 

Raven had spent hours with him, stripping him of socks and trousers and rolling her golden eyes when he steadfastly refused to take off his boxers in her presence. Carefully draping his legs over the side of the tub, Raven would then guide him into the water by wrapping her arms around his midsection and _lifting_ him. She was strong, remarkably so, chatting constantly in an attempt to distract him as she arranged him in the centimetre deep water and rubbed his legs with a soapy cloth. Charles could only stare in dumb disbelief, her words not quite sinking in. 

His legs. God. So pale, so _useless_ , hanging from the ends of his soaked boxer shorts like two loose pieces of string.

It wasn’t long before a mountain of view-obscuring bubbles became a bath-time necessity. 

Wrenching his thoughts back to the present, Charles reached for the hoist controls and flicked the ‘up’ command, letting his lashes flicker shut as the chair trembled and slowly and began to lift free of the water. The damn thing rumbled like a beast, shattering the illusion of quiet.

Manoeuvring the hoist’s arm over the side of the tub, Charles lowered it to the same level as his chair and dried himself off as best he could, bending against the pull of the safety restraints to pat his legs with a towel until they no longer shone with water. Impossible to tell whether they were really dry. 

With the security of the straps it was easier to struggle into the pair of clean boxers and slacks waiting for him on the seat of his wheelchair. Transferring from hoist to chair was still a tricky affair no matter how many times he did it: using the newly gained strength in his arms and shoulders to pivot himself across, gripping an arm of the chair and a metal bar on the underbelly of the hoist. At least that was one plus to all of this: the muscles of his arms were stronger now than they ever had been, stretching the elastic sleeves of his undershirt.

Rubbing away condensation with a clean swipe of his palm, Charles squinted into the mirror over the sink. At least a budding sense of pride in his appearance had reappeared recently. For weeks after his injury, he’d slummed around the house in sweats and pyjamas, letting the scratch of stubble turn to a beard spiked with reddish brown and the early onset of grey. It wasn’t until Raven told him he looked like a depressed, ginger Santa Claus that he decided to shave, forcing himself back into the routine of proper dress and daily vanity.

Today, a soft blue button-down and grey sweater vest, damp hair finger-tousled until it pushed back from his forehead in light waves. No need to shave, leaving the shadow of day-old scruff to darken his jaw and neck. To tie or not to tie? He was only going for lunch with Moira -- not that she was ‘only’ anything, of course -- but a tie would probably be a bit much for mid-afternoon sandwiches at a coffee shop.

Raven was hovering outside the bathroom door again, her anxious sigh audible even through the grain of wood and plaster separating them. Charles settled his legs on the chair’s footrests and bent across to tug the bathplug free, calling over the gurgle of draining water, “I hope my tea is waiting for me out there.”

A smile softened the sharp edges of Raven’s mind, her answering tone more than a little relieved. “What did your last maid die of?”

 

\---

 

Moira was late. 

And not just fashionably so. Charles had been waiting a full half hour for her to show face, absently sipping at his second cup of Chai tea and flicking his eyes between the door and the book currently laid open across the table. Their usual haunt, a tiny [bookstore-cum-coffee shop](http://i.imgur.com/ebU1F.jpg) on a quiet side-street only a couple of blocks from Charles‘ apartment. Armchairs and cushy sofas were scattered across rustic wooden flooring, the tall bookshelves framing all four walls stuffed with fiction and fact, travel and cookery, even a few erotic novellas wrapped in nondescript leather binding over in the top corner. The owners didn’t mind customers reading the books whilst they sat, so long as they obeyed the iron rule of ‘you stain it, you bought it’. 

Charles had grown accustomed to transferring himself into a favourite armchair by the café’s curving bay window, the waitress pushing his wheelchair neatly behind it out of the way. No special treatment, no ‘do you need a hand, sir’, just friendly consideration for both Charles and the other customers. Not that he didn’t appreciate offers of help, but it made a welcome change to be simply left to his own devices.

It wasn’t like Moira to be so late. That was more Charles’ job, a man easily distracted by second hand bookstalls and news reports, forgetting the time in favour of following a particularly interesting bird with his Polaroid camera. Newly-made Detective Moira was used to being firmly punctual, a trait drilled into her through years of police training and early morning meetings. She’d given up trying to time-train Charles the zenith time she’d called by his apartment only to find him sprawled over the couch, hungover to the point of incoherency. 

Really, there was just no saving some people.

But where the heck was she now, hm? Charles drummed his fingers on the pages of his novel and inwardly practised the speech he was going to good-naturedly rub in Moira’s face. 

Windchime tinkle of the bell over the door. Charles looked up, expecting Moira -

and felt his lips part on a silent gasp.

The man that walked into the coffee shop was, in a word, _stunning_. All tall, sleek lines and butterscotch skin, hair the colour of the Autumn leaves that swirled by his feet. Ruggedly handsome, his strong jaw cleanly shaven, beads of perspiration slowly drying on his forehead. Charles’ eyes wandered lower, drinking in the man’s grey running clothes stained with grass and sweat. Lean and powerful in his stride to the counter, panting slightly as though he’d just finished a long run. He turned toward the waitress - Charles subconsciously licked his lips: even through the baggy material of his sweatpants, the man had the sort of backside that could make Michelangelo’s David crumble with jealousy.

Ripping his gaze back to the unseen pages of his book, Charles pricked his ears to hear past the murmur of chattering customers and clinking china. There, the deep rumble of the man’s voice, a little hoarse with exertion, the sharp catch of an accent shaping each vowel. Bottle of water and some kind of latte - Charles heard the rattle of change hitting the counter top, a scuff of running shoes on wood. He lifted his eyes just in time to lock them with blue - grey - green -- the colour of Manhattan rain during a heavy storm. 

Charles faltered. His usual reaction when making eye contact with a particularly gorgeous specimen of man or woman would have been to smile and quirk a pleasing eyebrow, perhaps flash them a seductive look that Moira often referred to as his ‘creeper face’. Well, creeper face or not, it had gotten the job done on many occasions in the past, notching the marks on his bedpost that much higher. There had been a handful of relationships over the years, though none of them had ever passed that elusive twelve month marker. Not many lovers could handle the pressure of his telepathy, growing suspicious whenever Charles showed the barest sign of having read their minds, though usually he was simply picking up on the whisper of their surface thoughts. Blocking surface thoughts was akin to going simultaneously deaf and blind - Charles found it harder to focus, to really listen to verbal words without the glow of his power picking out the kaleidoscopic colours of a person’s mind. The telepathy was an integral part of him, impossible to switch off completely without leaving him punch-drunk and sluggish, oblivious to body language and facial expression. 

This man’s mind was vast, its colours a river of spilled inks. The darker recesses held sharpened edges that pricked his fingers when Charles drew too close, reams of barbed wire coiled tight around guarded memory. Charles politely refrained from pushing further inside despite the burn of curiosity, the surface levels alone enough to set a skip to his heart. _Different_ , this mind, vibrant. Clearly a mutant, though Charles couldn’t quite tell what that encompassed without digging deeper. 

Instead he smiled and tipped his teacup to the stranger, a much more reserved approach than his normal cheesy chat-up lines and indecent looks. 

A beat, then the man smiled back, a slow tug at the corners of thin lips. Those oddly coloured eyes swept Charles’ face, blazed a path down his chest and arms to linger on the teacup. 

“Have you tried the latte version?” The man paused by Charles’ table, that enigmatic little smile still in place. 

Charles blinked. “Excuse me?”

The man nodded down at the latte in his hand, the bottle of water tucked neatly under his arm. His voice was soft, deep, just a little withdrawn. “Chai lattes. If you enjoy the tea, you should try this.”

“I’m not too fond of coffee.” Charles shook his head apologetically. “I’m afraid it’d be lost on me.”

The man’s lips stretched a little further. “It’s not coffee. Chai tea spices and hot milk, basically.” 

“Is that so? Well, that does sound pretty delicious.” Better to leave out the part about how much more delicious the latte would no doubt taste when licked out of this gorgeous man’s mouth. “Thanks for the tip.”

Charles waved at the seat opposite him, a tall, wing-backed chair with overstuffed pillows. “Would you like to join me?”

 _What are you doing?_ An irritating little voice hissed from a dark corner of Charles’ mind, burrowing its sharp, self-conscious claws into his skin. Inviting a stranger for an innocent drink in his local coffee shop was the most flirtatious thing he’d done for almost seven months. The man was bloody gorgeous, and clearly highly athletic from the look of his running clothes and the glimpse of strong tendons in the stretch of his neck. What on earth could Charles gain from this other than rejection and embarrassment?

Still, it felt nice - exciting - to talk to someone new. Charles had never been such a recluse in his life, barely drifting outside the routine of his apartment, his office at the library, and this coffee shop. Erik was attractive and the curious press of his mind was wickedly intoxicating. One drink couldn’t hurt.

Erik’s eyes slid from the offered chair to Charles and back, contemplative, before he shrugged a broad shoulder and folded gracefully into the plush pillows. 

Charles extended his hand. “Charles Xavier.”

“Erik Lehnsherr.” Ah, so the accent was German. Barely noticeable, hinting that he’d lived away for quite some time, but still lingering. His palm was warm and broad, long fingers curling around Charles’ hand. Charles shivered.

“Do you live around these parts, Erik? I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.” 

Erik nodded, those long fingers of his unscrewing the water bottle’s plastic cap. Charles could barely tear his eyes away from them. “I just moved from further upstate. Still getting my bearings.” He brought the bottle to his lips, throat shifting in a deep swallow while he gazed around at the book-covered walls. “How about you; do you come here often?”

Charles smiled behind the rim of his teacup. Erik’s eyes were carefully averted, supposedly taking in the café, though the gentle flow of interest curling from his mind certainly wasn’t aimed toward the décor. “More than I’d care to admit, really. I think I’ve read nearly every book on these shelves.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. From travel guides of Indonesia to Agatha Christie novels and _Harry Potter_ , he‘d flicked through them all at least once in the five or so years that he‘d been visiting the café. He’d even peeked at the steamier stuff, sometimes hiding them in the pages of larger, less conspicuous books. The only ones he actively avoided were the sports compendiums - though looking at Erik now, with his sweatpants and sports brand sneakers, Charles wished he’d at least brushed up on some football team stats.

“Even the _Fifty Shades_ trilogy I can see over there?” Erik’s smile became playfully teasing. Charles shrugged coolly, returning the grin.

“I may or may not have browsed them to see what all the fuss was about. I found them rather tame, to be honest.” 

Erik laughed, more a deep huff of breath through his nose, and took a sip of his latte. Milk froth left a little white moustache across his top lip.

  


Trying not to stare when Erik‘s tongue slid out to lick the froth away, Charles cupped both hands around his lukewarm teacup and cleared his throat. “I work admin at mid-Manhattan library, so I admit I’m addicted to books. There should be some kind of AA meeting for it. It‘s a time and money draining affliction, I assure you.”

Erik slapped the table lightly with his fingertips, narrowing his eyes in recognition. “I knew you looked familiar. I took out some reference books there a while back. You helped me.”

Charles swallowed on a sandpaper throat. He’d only recently gone back to work after four months of sick leave and hadn’t left the sanctity of his office since, neglecting his duties on the front desks. If he _had_ met Erik briefly in the past - and from the snapshot memory developing in Erik’s mind, he was telling the truth - then there was no way he’d have been in his wheelchair at that point. It must have been at least half a year ago. 

Yes, he could remember the moment himself now: Darwin had actually been Erik’s server, Charles looking up from his stack of papers to lean in beside the younger apprentice and offer some information on a book that Erik had asked about. A flirty smile, a thank you, and Charles had handed the spotlight back to Darwin, too snowed under with work to spend much time ogling attractive customers. 

Changing the subject quickly, Charles shut the book he‘d been studying and folded his hands across the leather cover. “So, have you been running, Erik, or do you play some kind of sports?”

“Running. I’m not really a team-sport kind of person.” Erik snorted softly, and Charles caught the watery memory of what looked like Erik as a young child, unusually tall for his age and clearly uncomfortable in his own skin, standing alone on the side of a schoolyard football pitch. “Good way to scout out new neighbourhoods, find places to haunt. You have no idea how hard it is to find a decent coffee shop, even around here.”

He paused, fingering the dark ring of sweat staining the neck of his sweatshirt. “I apologise for looking like something that’s been dragged through a hedge. I was only going to stop by the coffee shop for some water, but when I saw they sold Chai lattes, I couldn’t resist.” Erik glanced down at the tall glass before nudging it gently toward Charles with a finger. “Want to try it?”

Charles blinked, surprised by the generous offer. “Really? Are you sure?” 

Erik nodded again, his expression encouraging. Charles breathed a pleased laugh and pulled the glass toward him, leaning forward to inhale the enticing scent of spice-laced milk. A small dent in the foam indicated the spot where Erik’s lips had touched the glass. Charles carefully avoided it, sipping from the opposite side. 

Delicious, hot and a little sweet, the familiar and much loved taste of Chai bursting across his tongue. Spicier than the tea, though more about flavour than heat. Not like those horrendous curries Raven kept trying to force-feed him.

Swallowing with a hum of approval, Charles slid the glass back across the table. “Thank you, that really is gorgeous. I’m very tempted to steal it.”

Erik’s grin became mock challenging as he curled a protective arm around the drink. “You can try.”

Charles dropped his eyes to his own - now unappreciated - teacup, lips wavering on an almost shy smile. This all felt so… unreal. Detached. Sitting here flirting over Chai with a man that could have been spat from his wet dreams; it all seemed too good to be true, the colours just a little too bright. Erik’s mind was gentle, so beautifully warm, a melancholic darkness seeping between cracks of light. 

Most notably: unless buried deep within his psyche, Erik hadn’t spared a single thought toward the wheelchair. Its curved handles were surely visible at the back of Charles’ seat, yet Erik’s surface thoughts remained solely fixed upon -- and Charles felt his cheeks flush a little at this -- his bright blue eyes and the scatter of red-brown freckles across his nose.

Charles’ stomach tightened. Had Erik even _noticed_ the wheelchair? If he remembered Charles from the library before his accident, it was entirely possible that Erik hadn’t put two and two together, or simply hadn’t seen it there.

Charles didn’t have time to panic, for Erik was suddenly pulling back his sleeve and grimacing at the displayed time. “Damn. I’m sorry, Charles, but I’m going to have to get going. I didn’t realise how late it was.” His lips twisted apologetically. “I have an appointment at midday, I’ll need to run home and change first.” 

He pushed the latte across the table until it nudged the edge of Charles’ closed book. “I surrender the latte to you. May you cherish and drink it.”

Charles attempted a smile, disappointment thick in his throat. “Thank you, Erik. It was nice to meet you. Again. However briefly.”

Erik, for his part, truly did look reluctant to leave, sorrow tainting his mind a cold shade of blue. The legs of his armchair scraped over wooden flooring as he stood to leave. Charles opened his mouth to say his goodbye, when the sudden determination setting Erik’s jaw stopped him. 

“I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but --” Erik dug a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, drawing out a thin card of eggshell white. Charles could just make out a printed phone number. “-- would you like to meet me for drinks later? Maybe some dinner?”

Charles blanched, heart freezing in his chest. Adrenaline surged thick and fast and cold through his bloodstream, and before he knew it he was -

\- he was -

\- he was standing up.

Standing up out of his armchair, extending a hand to take the card from Erik’s offering fingers.

A projection. An Illusion. Nothing more than an image invented by Charles’ overactive mind, a consequence of fear and excitement and a desperate, yearning need to be accepted. 

Erik hadn’t noticed the chair. He couldn’t have. There wasn’t a single thought dedicated to it nor Charles’ physical state in the man’s surface thoughts. Erik was fit, an athlete, a quick glance at the card revealing him to be a damn personal trainer of all things. Surely there was no way Erik would have asked Charles out had he known about the wheelchair. Charles’ brain simply refused to believe it.

In reality, he had merely leaned as far forward as he could to pluck the card from Erik’s hand. The projection grinned, looked up into Erik’s face. He hadn’t bothered to tweak his height, and Erik towered at least half a foot over him. His voice shook as he answered, “I’d love to.”

“Okay.” Erik seemed flushed, excitement a shimmer of orange-gold. “There’s a decent restaurant about two blocks from here, just newly opened. The Chessboard. Have you heard of it? I could meet you there around 8?”

Charles nodded, the projection nodding in tandem. “Sounds wonderful. I’ll see you there, Erik.”

Erik shook his - the projection’s - hand once more before turning and slipping out through the café’s door, overhead bell jingling merrily. 

Heart hammering, Charles broke the illusion with a swift whoosh of breath, head slamming back against his chair. 

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

  


**Chapter Two**  
 _‘Well you know how much I need you,  
but you never even see me, do you’_

 

What on earth had he just _done_? 

Projected a phantom to Erik, lied through his teeth, and -- most idiotically -- accepted a date with him. Charles’ hands clenched to fists, the urge to slap himself almost overwhelming. How was he supposed to see Erik again without continuing the fabrication? Turning up to the bar in his wheelchair was out of the question: Erik would turn tail and run before Charles could even begin to explain himself. 

He should cancel. He should ring Erik right now and make an excuse. Erik had been so nice to him, handsome and charming and so damned intriguing, drawing Charles to him like a flower sought out the sun. The projection had come from pure fear, his telepathy wrapping artificial chains around Erik’s senses. 

It made Charles feel physically sick, sour bile stinging his throat. What was he supposed to _do?_

He looked down at the card, Erik‘s name and number taunting him. 

_Ring him,_ hissed that snide little voice inside his head, _Ring him and undo this mess._

Jerked from his contemplation by the rapid tap of fingernails on glass, Charles whipped around to see Moira waving at him from the other side of the window, mouthing an exaggerated ‘sorry!’ as she circled around through the café door.

“Sorry, sorry.” Click of kitten heels on wood and she collapsed heavily into the chair Erik had previously occupied, auburn hair a tumble around her shoulders. “It’s about time I was late for something, right? I got caught up at work. An interrogation I really could have used your help with, actually - he was shut up tighter than a clam, I had to break his -”

She paused mid-sentence, coffee coloured eyes raking Charles’ pale face. “Are you alright?“ Concern creasing her brow, Moira leaned forward to touch her fingertips to the back of Charles‘ hand. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Charles huffed a sigh through parted lips, absently toying with the printed slip of card bearing Erik‘s number. “Worse. I just said yes to a date.”

Moira, instead of cringing and berating Charles for his choice -- as perhaps she should have, Charles thought bitterly -- gasped in clear delight. She leaned further over the table, her thighs barely touching her seat. “Who? When? Come on, tell me everything. I want to know all the gory details.”

“Moira, I hardly think we should be gossiping like a pair of old fishwives. This is serious.” 

Moira’s face set into a gently chiding frown. She leaned back to perch more securely on her seat. “Charles. You’re not agreeing to marry this person. It’s a date, that’s all. Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Handsome?”

“Stunning.”

“Nice guy?”

“He seems to be.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Charles fixed his friend with a hard, pointed stare. “You know very well what the problem is, Moira.”

Unperturbed by the ‘look’, Moira folded her hands neatly on the table, well manicured nails catching the faint sunlight. Her voice was measured, carefully insistent as she asked, “Charles, when was the last time you had sex?”

An uncharacteristic blush spread swiftly across Charles’ face, staining his cheeks in red and pink watercolours. He and Moira often chatted about their eclectic love-lives, never quite going into graphics over the sexual details, but discussing it plainly nonetheless. Moira found it increasingly difficult to find a partner these days, her time-consuming job frightening many away before they ever had the chance to be called a boyfriend. Her career came first, something she had fought so hard to obtain over several long years of back-breaking police work and endless hours at the station. The idea of settling down with a husband and having babies and a shared mortgage was foreign to her, a parallel universe she could never imagine wishing to reach.

She and Charles had tried going on a date together once, and only once. God, had it really been three years ago? Unsure of the true nature of their feelings toward each other, the two of them had mutually agreed to dinner at a smart French restaurant downtown. Moira had looked exceptionally beautiful, her hair twisted up into an intricate knot, a little black dress hugging every curve, and for a wild, confused moment, Charles had entertained the notion of this really working. Moira was beautiful, intelligent, funny -- why wouldn’t he want to be with her? 

It had taken perhaps twenty minutes for them to realise that they were never destined to be anything other than close friends, dissolving into fits of ridiculous laughter over their main courses. Beautiful, intelligent, completely insane Moira, her hair gradually falling from its knot the more animated (drunk) she became. Three bottles of wine and a couple of Crème Brûlée’s later and they’d both gone home with the waiters, rosy-cheeked and waving from their respective taxicabs. Both nursing terrible hangovers the next afternoon, they had agreed to never try dating each other ever again.

No, it wasn’t the topic of sex itself that embarrassed Charles. 

It was the… mechanics.

After his short stay in hospital, Charles had spent a few hellish weeks in a spinal rehabilitation centre, receiving intensive physiotherapy and basic training for everyday life as a paraplegic. When it came to sexual issues, he had been given a single pamphlet with embarrassingly robotic instructions on how to masturbate. The title of the pamphlet read: ‘The Brain: Your Largest Sex Organ.’ Charles had smiled wanly at the nurse, nodding as though it wasn’t the most condescending piece of information he’d ever seen. 

‘Put water based lubricant into the palm of your hand,’ the leaflet had said. ‘Grasp the shaft of your penis and stroke it in ascending and descending motions.’ At the bottom, like the warning on a Styrofoam cup of Starbucks, were the words: “CAUTION: Do not grip too tightly.’

Well, it wasn’t exactly rocket science. 

Hours of exertion, and though Charles had experienced some pleasurable flutters in the depths of his stomach, all he had to show for his efforts were pale imprints of his fingers and a red haze of clouding frustration. He couldn’t orgasm. Hell, he could barely maintain an erection. The whole ‘self-love’ thing was like wringing a rubber chicken by the neck.

His Doctor prescribed a powerful drug named Papaverine, designed to help erectile dysfunction. Charles had cringed at the very idea, wrinkling his nose at the small vial of clear liquid that was to be injected into his penis with an insulin syringe. It had taken some courage - and much coaxing from an awkward Moira on the other end of the phoneline - to convince him to do it. 

The drug hadn’t helped him achieve orgasm, though it had given him an immediate erection that had lasted hours.

And hours.

 _And hours._ Charles had merely stared at it in a mix of awe and terror, wondering if the damn drug had turned his cock to stone. He already had to contend with an uncontrollable bladder hooked up to a catheter - now he had a monster between his legs and needed to sleep on his back until it finally dispersed. 

Charles hadn’t had sex with anyone since his accident, shying away from the prospect of dating. His old lifestyle of tumbling into bed for one night stands was over, despite Moira and Raven trying to convince him otherwise. The idea of sex frightened him - that he would have to slip away and shoot up on Papaverine beforehand, spontaneity lost forever; that he would struggle to make love to man or woman, his preference for topping blown to the wind unless they were prepared to ride his barely moving frame; that he would, in all probability, never experience orgasm again - it all helped to smash his glass confidence to glittering shards at his feet.

“A while ago,” came Charles’ cryptic reply, fooling no one. Moira pursed her lips. No pity in her mind, just a blue wash of frustrated exasperation.

“Charles, you are going on this date if I have to drag you there myself.” The Cop Voice, stern and commanding. “This guy saw your wheelchair, and he still asked you out. You’re not looking at this rationally.”

Ah.

Charles opened his mouth, the revelation of his stupidity on the very tip of his tongue. “Moira, I-”

“You can’t talk your way out of this, Charles. You can’t flutter those baby blues at me and think I’ll go easy on you.” Moira shook her head firmly. “You are going on this date and you will have a good time. It’s been sixth months today since your accident -- yes, I remembered the anniversary -- and I think you sorely need this. Give me one good reason why you can’t enjoy yourself for once?”

Charles gazed at her, at her soft brown eyes and the weave of fragile hope virtually shining through her skin. He had already made such an idiot of himself. Why disappoint Moira further? She had tried so hard to set him up with dates over the last six months: Steve from Robbery-Homicide, fresh from a long service in the army and so very, very _nice_. Polite, softly-spoken, all parted blond hair and impressive muscles. Steve was sweet and undeniably handsome, but Charles had found himself growing bored long before the end of the date, his penchant for bad boys too strong to ignore even for cute army men. 

Then Natasha, a gorgeous redhead that had threatened to snap Charles’ neck if he tried to touch her without express permission, preferably in written form. Needless to say he had kept his hands to himself after that.

Ororo. Jean. Piotr: none had progressed past a second date. Not even Bruce, the only person Charles had ever been able to talk physics and genetics and biology with and actually have them keep up. Charles simply wasn’t interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with any of them, leaving Moira to rifle through her address book once again. 

He couldn’t handle her disgust at his foolishness. Her anger. Her pity. 

Charles sighed lightly, his answering smile forced. “There’s no reason.”

 

\----

 

Raven sniffed out the impending date quicker than a thirsty bloodhound, wedging herself into Charles‘ bedroom before he could slam the door behind him. Her reaction was scarily similar to Moira’s, golden eyes flashing with delight as she grilled him with increasingly nosey questions, lounging catlike on his bed.

“What’s his name?”

“Erik.”

“Where are you going?”

“A bar.”

“Dinner?”

“Possibly.”

“Is he hot?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he look like?”

“A man.”

“Come on, Charles. Hair colour. Eye colour. Great ass or flat ass.” 

“Auburn. Greenish. Exquisite arse.”

Raven wasn’t always so interested in the gritty details of his dates, the two of them usually operating on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ basis. Charles wasn’t going to pretend that her new found enthusiasm was anything other than excitement to see him getting back into the swing of life after so long hidden away. Raven was attuned to carefully shielding most of her thoughts from Charles, though it didn’t stop him from catching the curious murmur of questions she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask, most of them involving Erik’s opinions on the wheelchair.

Charles kept his attention firmly on the mirror, running a damp comb through his hair. Like Moira, Raven didn’t need to find out about his mental slip-up. Nothing was going to come from this date other than a few drinks and some pleasant conversation. He and Erik probably had nothing in common, their attraction to each other purely physical. He highly doubted there would be a second date, and even if Erik asked… Charles had no real choice other than to politely decline.

Setting the comb down on the dresser, Charles turned the chair to face his sister still sprawled stomach down on his bed. “How do I look?”

Raven pouted thoughtfully, looking him up and down. Since getting back from lunch with Moira he’d changed into a fresh white shirt layered over with a grey pinstriped blazer. Dark jeans - Raven’s choice - gave the outfit a less formal feel. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying the watch he’d gotten a few Christmases back as well as the galaxy of reddish freckles peppering his arms. Apart from the rather wild look of panic in his eyes, he looked pretty good.

Raven flashed him a thumbs up. “Dashing. Debonair. All the D words you like.” She rolled onto her back, the red of her hair a sharp contrast against his cream bed sheets. “Want me to give you a lift down to the bar later?”

Charles opened his mouth to accept, but quickly snapped it shut again. What if Erik was waiting for him outside the bar? He couldn’t exactly project to her as well. Raven’s head was strictly off limits. 

“No, thanks. I can get a cab.” To the end of the street where he could prepare himself safely, away from the press of too many minds and the eyes of overprotective sisters. “You’re not getting an eyeful of him that easily.”

“You caught me.” She flashed him an upside down grin. “I just wanted to make sure he’s handsome enough for my big brother.”

“Yes, I’m sure. What are you doing tonight, anyway?”

“Meeting up with an old friend. Nothing huge.” Raven shrugged a nonchalant shoulder, though her subconscious tightened like a steel trap. Charles waggled his eyebrows, unable to resist a tease.

“Just an ‘old friend’, hm? So lets say I return home early; will I get to meet said old friend that you‘re so friendly with?”

Raven pulled a face. “Drop it, Charles. Or I’ll forget my friend and stalk you and Mr. Loverman all night,”

“You’d never fool me, Raven. You could morph into Erik himself and I’d still know it was you.” The colours of Raven’s mind were too unique, too familiar by now. She sometimes tried to catch him out, wandering into the library or the café in various physical disguises. They never worked for long. Of course, if Charles cut himself from his telepathy entirely then there was no way he would guess so quickly; Raven’s skill over her gifts were not to be sniffed at.

Angling the wheelchair past the bed, Charles glanced down at his watch. 7:30. Showtime.

Sucking in a breath deep enough to puff out his chest, Charles held it in his lungs for a few calming seconds before letting it free in one long whoosh. Raven’s smile was bright in her dark face. “Good luck, Charles. I mean it.”

He certainly needed it.

 

\----

 

Evening melted to night in a dreamy wash of inky blacks and starlight, carrying the heavy scent of approaching rain and fast food on its cool breeze. The New York streets were busy, as they always were, a steady chatter in Charles’ ears and mind alike. It was always harder to shield against the oppressive hum of the city when he was nervous, and right now he felt he could take flight with the sheer amount of butterflies flapping a storm in his stomach. 

The cab had dropped him off a block away from the bar, the driver helping to load his wheelchair in and out of the back seat. Charles pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around his neck, a stream of cold air billowing past his lips. When he had first moved to New York at the tender age of ten, it had genuinely surprised him just how cold the city’s Winters were. He’d expected America to be blazing hot, or at least in comparison to the never-ending rain back in London. But when that first snowy December had hit Westchester, he’d soon realised just how wrong he’d been. Even now, 17 years later, he still found the cold weather hard to combat, preferring to wrap up in his favourite sweaters and thickset blazers, maybe the odd cardigan here and there. The wheels of his chair were freezing when he set off down the street, and not for the first time did Charles wish he’d brought some gloves with him.

Weaving his way through the mingling crowds, Charles kept his telepathy on full alert as he drew closer to the Chessboard, and it wasn’t long before he honed in on that deep river of whirling colours: Erik, waiting outside for him in a long overcoat and a fedora, leaning back against the brick wall.

  


Instinct kicked in and Charles pounced, those phantom chains returning to snare tight around the very center of Erik’s mind. Something tickled in there, a steady vibration that Charles had never felt before. He concentrated on it: a pulse, a _singing_ , high and strangely melodic. The taste of coppery blood filled his mouth, like coins under his tongue. He could feel the lamppost beside him - beside Erik - buzzing with barely restrained life and power. Electricity? 

No, not quite. It was the _metal_ he could sense, the very structure of the lamp itself. And there, the change in people’s pockets and the watches on their wrists, silver jewellery strung around necks and fingers. A man walking past had a gold filling, this vibration deeper, though the cheap copper bracelet he wore sang with a soprano pitch. 

It was everywhere, in the buildings around them and the floor beneath them, electrical wires overhead and the thousands upon thousands of people. And now Charles was picking out the shape of his own wheelchair amongst them, Erik’s power sluicing over it like a sonar, taking in the size and shape and -

\- _enough_. Charles clamped down, snipping the curious little thread before it could fully develop. 

Of all the people in this city he had chosen to lie about his disability to, why did it have to be the person that could sense every nut and bolt of his wheelchair easier than a bee sought nectar? Just his damn luck. It felt terrible to control yet another aspect of Erik’s mind, but how else was he supposed to get out of this? It was too late to back down now. At least he wasn’t cutting Erik’s power entirely, merely blocking him from picking out the wheelchair. 

Sucking in a resolute breath, Charles moved closer, waving a hand when Erik turned to look. His projection was picture perfect, walking a pace ahead and smiling much brighter than the real Charles.

Erik shook his hand, skin covered by age-softened leather gloves. “Hello again, Charles. Glad you could make it.”

“And miss the opportunity of dinner and drinks at my favourite game’s namesake?” He tipped his head toward the Chessboard’s doors. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China.”

Erik’s soft laugh sent up a cloud of crystal breath. “You play Chess?”

“I’ve been known to dabble.” Another understatement. Until recently, Charles had often frequented the local chess club at work, teaching younger enthusiasts as well as taking on some of the more hardcore players, sometimes staying hours after his shift had ended just to finish up a particularly exciting match. “How about you?”

“Once or twice, though I’m no master,” --A clear lie, bled with modest shades of red. He’d been playing for years-- “Maybe you could teach me sometime?” Erik took a step toward the door, swinging it out for Charles to pass first. Charles eased his chair through, careful not to ride over Erik’s toes or catch his knuckles on the frame.

The [interior ](http://i.imgur.com/mcqnt.jpg)of the restaurant was one of understated beauty, softly lit from the glow of hanging lanterns. Stone flooring decorated in checks of black and white, the tables dark wood with strikingly white tablecloths. The salt and pepper shakers were like little chess pieces, a Knight and Rook respectively. 

Erik spoke quietly to the Maitre d', apparently already having made reservations, and Charles followed them both to a private booth against the back wall. The high-backed benches were padded with a wine-red leather, his projection easily sliding in opposite Erik. They ordered their drinks from the waiter, and with Erik distracted, Charles felt safe enough to attempt transferring himself across into the booth. Slow, steady, using the strength in his arms. For a sickening moment he thought he would slip, his grip on the table not quite as firm as he thought -- but then he was collapsing onto soft leather, and it didn’t take much to push himself up and rearrange his legs into a more comfortable position. Not a perfect dismount, but not bad given the circumstances. Erik, of course, hadn’t noticed a thing.

Neither did the waiter as he wordlessly pushed Charles’ wheelchair out of the way, a silent command compelling him to obedient silence. Charles ignored the guilty weight settling in his stomach: controlling a person’s body as well as their mind left him feeling sick with shame.

Letting the projection fall into standby, Charles sipped at his scotch, savouring the burn on his tongue. “Your card said you were a personal trainer, Erik?”

Erik nodded, swallowing his own mouthful of scotch. The same brand as Charles, which had surprised him; the majority of his dates in the past drank wine or vodka mixers. “Yes. I stick to a small number of clients at a time, and believe me that’s more than enough. I‘ve been told I‘m a little… harsh with them, but it gets the results they want.”

In the woven stitches of Erik’s mind, Charles could see a young blond man no later than early twenties, red faced and glaring as he ran full-pelt on a treadmill with Erik barking instructions beside him. Charles hid his amused smile behind the rim of his glass. 

Erik continued, “It’s why I moved here. More clients, and closer to places like Central Park. Better to go there than a gym, I think. People feel more motivated when they’re out in the fresh air.”

Charles wasn’t going to argue with that. Before the accident he had quite enjoyed a brisk jog around the park to keep himself in shape. The very idea of sweating himself half to death in a gym full of people made him want to tear his hair out by the root. His physical therapy sessions had been bad enough. The therapist, a gruff Canadian that went by the name of Logan, had pushed Charles to his limit using all manner of assisting devices that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval torture chamber. Therapeutic Massage may sound flowery and relaxing, but it certainly wasn’t, and Charles had soon grown to dread the sight of the treatment table and the waiting click of Logan’s flexing knuckles. 

The waiter soon returned to take their food orders, and Charles was supremely glad when Erik skipped straight to a main course, decadent thoughts of sugar and chocolate flickering across his subconscious - apparently Charles wasn’t the only sweet tooth at the table, preferring to overlook a starter in order to save room for a big, gooey dessert. 

Erik’s face became strangely grave as the waiter walked away, tapered fingers anxiously ripping at the corners of a chequered napkin. Charles tipped his head curiously. “Are you alright, my friend?”

“Before this goes any further, Charles, I feel I should tell you.” Erik looked up and his eyes were subtly shaded. “I’m a mutant. I hope that’s not a problem.” His tone was defensive, almost threatening, as though daring Charles to proclaim that yes, it _was_ a problem, thank you.

Charles grinned, speaking his reply directly into Erik’s mind. _‘Why ever would that be a problem?’_

Erik’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, surprise a burst of orange-yellow fireworks. “You’re a telepath?”

“That’s right. How about you, Erik? What can you do?” No need to let Erik know he’d already figured it out for himself under such questionable circumstances.

“I can manipulate metal.” Erik’s fork lifted slowly from the table, twisting and elongating until it became one long, unbroken string of silver. “And to a lesser extent I can alter magnetic fields. I’m still working on that one.”

Charles breathed an awed laugh as the fork continued to contort, liquid metal shifting and tumbling into the shape of a -

Charles’ ears went red. The fork had transformed into a perfect metallic rose, so intricate in design that it could have been the flower itself coated with molten silver. It floated down into Erik’s palm.

“You have a very beautiful gift, Erik.” Charles licked his lips, wishing he could reach out to touch the rose’s petals and feel for himself just how solid they were. Really, the whole thing would be so bloody cheesy if it weren’t for the look of purest sincerity on Erik’s face.

“Not everyone thinks so.”

Charles didn’t attempt to object. Mutant rights were still heavily fought for, and some mutants still chose to hide their abilities from the world through fear of social rejection. Especially those with the brighter physical mutations. Raven only wore her blue skin around Charles, tucked away in the safety of their own home. To the outside world she was a peachy blonde, brimming with forced smiles and false confidence.

“Well, I find your abilities fascinating. You could shave and cook dinner and change the TV channel all at once.” Charles tipped his glass in polite salute. “Use them all you like around me.”

Erik’s eyes sparkled, his small smile turning wolfish. “I should apologise in advance for any inappropriate thoughts I may have about you.”

Charles twitched an eyebrow. “I’m just glad you can’t read my own.”

Warning lights flashed in Charles’ mind, wiping the seductive smirk from his face. Their flirting was quickly wading into dangerous territory. The last thing he should be doing was making Erik think that this thing between them could go any further, like a second date. Charles ignored the painful little twinge in his chest - Erik was exceptionally gorgeous, intelligent and softly spoken. What Charles wouldn’t give for another date, to invite Erik back to his apartment or to a movie, or somewhere where Erik wouldn’t need quite so many layers of clothing. 

Mentally scolding himself, Charles focused on his food when it arrived, twisting strings of creamy pasta around his fork. Erik chatted quietly about books and music, and though he had slightly different tastes to Charles (Charles preferred 60s music, Erik the early 2000’s. Charles liked fictional novels of adventure and fancy while Erik stuck to biographies and reference books), he argued his cases so well that Charles couldn’t help but nod fiercely and lean forward on his elbows, the two of them launching into heated, playful debate. It felt wonderful. Nobody other than Moira had ever been able to argue this well with him before, bouncing ideals and theories, so passionate and articulate.

By the time their plates had been cleared and Erik had excused himself to the bar for another round of drinks, Charles found himself anxiously chewing his lower lip and seriously considering fleeing before he could fall any deeper into this grave he was steadily digging. Erik was infatuating, annoyingly so. Why couldn’t they have had absolutely nothing in common? Why couldn’t they have sat there in awkward silence for the entire meal?

Why had Charles been so god damned stupid?

And then Erik was returning with a tray of refreshed drinks, grinning as he told Charles he’d ordered a surprise. Charles’ eyes flicked to the waiter following behind, and widened in shock.

Apparently, the restaurant’s signature dessert was an edible [Chessboard](http://i.imgur.com/xlT0d.jpg), its perfectly moulded pieces made of white and dark chocolate, some containing flavoured creams and liqueurs. The board itself was chequered sugar paper, though Charles’ eyes were glued to the little chocolate King piece, which - according to the small list that came with the dessert - contained Champagne liqueur. Charles was positively drooling as he beamed across at Erik, the man’s smile just a touch smug and all the damn sexier for it.

Saying no to a second date was going to be the hardest thing Charles would ever have to do in his life.

 

\----

 

Charles won the chocolate chess match by a bare handful of moves, sharing most of the captured pieces with Erik despite the man‘s protests. The night drew to its inevitable close, the two of them splitting the bill and happily munching sugar paper as they left the warmth of the restaurant behind and ventured out into the frosty night. Charles rubbed his hands together, curling them tight around the wheels of his chair.

“Do you live close by?” Erik had slipped his fedora back over his hair, giving him that appealing 1930’s gangster affect. Charles nodded.

“Not too far.”

“Walking distance?”

Ah. Charles could see where this was going. Those dratted butterflies in his stomach began to flutter once again. Erik was going to ask to walk him home, squeeze out a last few minutes together. Would he try to kiss him at the doorstep? Would he ask to come inside?

Had this been six months ago then Charles would have initiated it himself, no stranger to sex on a first date. He personally didn’t see the taboo: two consenting adults enjoying each other’s company as well as each other’s bodies. Fun, exciting and pleasurable. What was wrong with that?

But now, looking up into Erik’s face, feeling the second-hand tingle of the man’s nerves and hopes - Charles’ heart clenched, stomach flipping painfully.

“Yes.”

Damn it.

Erik’s coat billowed out behind them as they walked, streetlamps casting deep shadows over the angles of his face. Charles kept a careful distance even while his projection sidled closer, occasionally glancing between them to ensure he wasn’t about to wheel over Erik’s toes.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.” Erik admitted quietly. “Normally I find it quite difficult to talk to new people.”

“It’s been a while for me, too.” 

_‘-can’t think why-’  
‘-so beautiful-’_

Charles flushed, glad of the darkness. He wanted to press further, to ask about Erik’s last relationship, why it had ended, if it had contributed to the reams of barbed wire defending his mind. Instead he shivered and took his hands off the wheels, rubbing his fingers. His projection must have copied his actions because Erik was suddenly peeling off his gloves and holding them out. “Have these.”

Charles quickly shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

“I have a spare pair at home.” Erik pressed them into Charles’ hands. “Besides, it’ll give me an excuse to see you again.”

Heart skipping, Charles wiggled his fingers into the gloves. Warm inside, soft fleece trapping the lingering heat of Erik’s hands. “Thank you.”

  


The dark shape of his apartment block soon came into view, a light in the window showing Raven was still at home. Charles waved toward it. “This is me.”

“Do you live alone?” Erik tipped his head back to peer up at the building, one bare hand holding his fedora in place.

“With my younger sister. She‘s not a bad roommate, if you ignore the mess.”

They stopped outside the doorway, Charles already patting down his coat pockets for the keycard. Erik cleared his throat, his shoulders hunched like an awkward owl puffing its feathers.

“So, can I?”

Charles looked up, mouth dry. “Can you what?”

“See you again.” Erik was smiling, moonlight deepening the shadow of his lips. Charles hesitated, fiddling with the metal loop holding the keycard to his house key.

_Say no. Say you’re not interested. Give the gloves back and leave the poor man alone before this gets even more out of hand._

“I’d like that very much.” 

Curse his betraying mouth.

 

\----

 

Charles couldn’t remember much about the accident itself. A screech of breaks and the acidic stench of burning rubber; the dizzying sensation of falling and the world spinning as his body rolled across rough tarmac. Clatter of his bike somewhere alongside him, dead hunk of twisted metal.

A woman’s voice, shrill and far away. Hands on his face. Dark hair flashing in the illumination of dazzling headlights. Then nothing but the darkness of night rapidly swallowing his vision, winking stars swimming in and out of focus. 

He didn’t remember the ambulance arriving, the oxygen mask snapping tight across his face. He didn’t remember that hot wave of pain that first jarred his spine as he was lifted onto the stretcher, or the suddenly empty feeling below his belt. Panic, sharp breaths; the bite of a needle sliding into his arm. 

The next thing he knew, he was blinking leaden eyelids at the blurred outline of a blond woman holding a bright light that left circles of burnt space in his vision. Her voice sounded muffled, too loud yet too soft as she gently explained that he was in hospital, had been hit by a car, come off his bike. Questions: are you alright, what do you remember, are you in pain?

A blink, a breath. 

_I can’t feel my legs._

Scraps of blurry recollection and eye-witness testimony helped Charles piece together what had happened that night. A car swerving to avoid the path of another had slammed into his bicycle from behind, sent him hurtling a good fifteen feet across the road. A bad case of wrong place at the wrong time, a late evening dash to the shops to pick up groceries landing him in hospital. Who knew popping out for milk and teabags could be so dangerous?

Surgery was inevitable, because even as the particularly nasty gash over his forehead slowly scabbed and healed over, even as his twisted wrist and cut lip set themselves right, his legs could possibly stay this way -- leaden, dead weights -- for the rest of his life. Fluid on his lower spine crushing his spinal cords, apparently. That rather impassive nurse with the blonde hair and freezing cold hands -- Emma -- had explained to him from the rim of her clipboard:

“Spinal Decompression surgery will be required, Mr. Xavier, probably followed by a couple weeks rehab and physical therapy.” She had smiled gently then, tapped long fingernails on the edges of her clipboard. “It’ll all increase the chance of recovery.” 

The _chance_. 

Charles had swallowed, nodded with a shaky word of thanks, pushed the thought away. Hot terror clawed his throat raw, though the tears that burned his eyes remained unshed. There was a chance, no matter how slim it seemed, that he would walk again. He had clung to his hope with iron resolve, met each new challenge with a calm air that the nurses were soon complimenting him on. 

Life in hospital was one of routine. Charles was woken every morning at 7am by pale yellow sunlight and the swish of opened curtains, the nurse handing him his painkillers and a fizzing cup of something that tasted decidedly like salty orange juice. Inane chatter over the hiss of a blood pressure cuff on his arm, unfelt needles sliding into the meat of his thigh. 

Then the tedious and highly awkward task of a sponge bath would begin. 

Even the thought of a sponge bath made him writhe with loathing. Charles had never been more embarrassed in his life, not even when Raven had caught him jerking off over a porno when he was 17. Getting a wet cloth rubbed over his unwilling body by a smiling Nursing Assistant was not something he enjoyed, despite the young woman - Angel, she'd informed him, before filling his face full of lukewarm sponge - being undoubtedly beautiful and friendly. At least he wasn’t ticklish now. Any other time, he’d have kicked anyone who went near his feet in the face with his accidentally flailing limbs. Strange that he could see the sponge moving over his legs, soapy water trickling down to pool beneath his heels, yet couldn’t feel a single thing. 

A peculiar and nightmarish feeling indeed.

Four days without getting out of bed would have sounded like bliss to Charles at one point in his life. To laze in warm sheets all day, bundled up with blankets and pillows and while away the hours watching crappy quiz shows or ploughing through the countless number of books on his ever-growing reading list. Heaven, right? 

It wasn’t like that in hospital, of course. Forced to lay in one position, afraid to move anything below his neck in case of further injury, staring up at the flashing TV screen without really concentrating on it. Dreams of headlights and screaming and cold hands on his face.

Emma insisted on keeping him flat until after his surgery, routinely rolling him onto each side to stop any potential pressure sores developing. Using the bathroom boiled down to catheterisation and highly embarrassing procedures he was gladly going to repress once he was free of this place. Never had peeing standing up seemed such a luxury. 

Raven visited each afternoon, bringing him books and obligatory bunches of grapes. Her face shone pale behind the falsely cheerful smiles she wore, covert eyes flicking to run the length of Charles’ legs shaped beneath thin hospital sheets. Charles remained upbeat, squeezed her hand in reassurance and fought past the nausea of having to lie to his own sister. Letting her know about the tight pain in his back or the numbing fear of adapting to life as a paraplegic was not an option he relished. Staying strong for her gave him a purpose to look ahead, to not dissolve into sobs and surrender to his own terror. 

Instead he regaled her with tales of the hospital staff: fiery little Angel that had once slapped the face of a drunk A&E patient who dared to pinch her backside. Dr Shaw, Chief of Medicine, a slightly seedy chap who had looked Charles up and down like a butcher assessing a diagram of beef cuts before asking whether or not he had insurance. Not to mention Hank, the young Pharmacist that Charles had struck up something of a friendship with, chattering for hours that first day about _Star Trek_ and classic literature, until Hank had realised that Charles was high as a kite from the strong cocktail of painkillers he’d just prescribed him. 

The day of his surgery came far too quickly, Emma and Angel helping him roll carefully onto his stomach and transfer to an operating theatre trolley. Fear was hard to swallow on a dry throat, Charles’ arms trembling as he folded them under his head. Emma’s icy hand touched his elbow, her calm voice reassuring him that the surgeon, a Russian mutant by the name of Azazel, was an expert with a knife. He’d have Charles back in shape in no time, a relatively non-invasive procedure that would alleviate the pressure in his back and hopefully -- fingers tightly crossed -- return feeling and movement to his legs. A moderate success rate, numbers and statistics stacked in his favour; Charles had held his breath and signed the various consent forms, waving silently to Raven as she watched them wheel him to theatre. 

The last thing he remembered was Azazel’s gloved hands strapping a mask over his face, the sweet smell of anaesthetic lulling him to a deep, drug-induced sleep.

\----

It didn’t work.


	3. Chapter 3

  


**Chapter Three**  
 _‘It‘s getting harder just keeping heart and soul together  
I‘m sick of fighting, even though I know I should.’_

 

Sunday morning dawned on a weak burst of watery sunlight, dust swirling in thin shafts that slipped between the gaps in horizontal blinds to fall across Charles’ dozing face. He stirred, nose scrunching, gurgling a word that definitely wasn’t found anywhere in the Oxford English dictionary. A truly terrible night’s sleep: Charles had been far too excited and nervous to really fall into anything deeper than a light snooze. 

His telepathy was much harder to keep leashed when asleep, often resulting in his spirit slipping in and out of the dreams of those around him. Raven had dreamt of a carrousel, golden horses dressed in jewels, and Angel -- the nursing assistant from Charles’ time in hospital -- there beside her in a shimmering dress of woven silk. Janos, their neighbour one floor below, had only jerked from his nightmare of fire and choking smoke when Charles had had enough, forcing the Spaniard to awaken with a harsh gasp, sweat collecting on his forehead.

He wondered what Erik dreamed of; if that spiked tangle of wire and mesh was enough to save him from his own nightmares.

Charles spent the morning chewing his nails down to stubs, leaving his bowl of cereal to turn to milky mush while he rummaged through what must have been his entire wardrobe. Raven sipped at an overly large mug of coffee, hovering by his elbow to offer suggestions.

“How about this?”

“Raven, we’re going to the park. I’m not wearing a kilt to the park.”

“Why do you even _own_ a [kilt](http://i.imgur.com/XYCew.jpg)?”

“I bought it for a friend’s wedding. A Scottish friend.”

Raven reached past him to pull out a pair of leather trousers, one unimpressed eyebrow sliding high up her forehead. Charles set his jaw defiantly. “They were an experiment.”

Raven held them up against her hips, quite obviously planning to steal them. “Whatever, Charles, just don’t wear the cardigans.”

“Why not? It’s cold out there.”

“Because you’ll look like Erik’s grandpa, not his boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Aware of how childish the statement sounded, Charles quickly turned the tables, peering up at his sister with a mischievous light in his eyes. “So when are you seeing this old friend again? Did you enjoy your date the other night?”

“It wasn’t exactly a date, just drinks.” Raven shuffled from one foot to the other, her well-practised mind closed of even the barest surface thought. “We’re meeting again tonight, actually. Not that you’ll get a chance to see since I’m sure you’ll be too shagged out to come home.”

Charles rolled his eyes in reply, pulling a carefully folded sweater out of the closet. “Hardly. To be honest, I don‘t think it‘ll go anywhere between me and Erik.”

Raven’s teasingly brattish demeanour dropped. She leaned a hip against the open closet door, watching him closely. “Why?”

“We’re just… not well matched.” It hurt to even lie about it, remembering just how wonderfully the two of them had argued and debated over dinner, the way Erik had smiled at him around a mouthful of brandy and dark chocolate. “I’m going to tell him today that I don’t think we should see each other again.”

Raven didn’t seem fooled, her tone soft yet undoubtedly accusing. “Is that the real reason, Charles?”

Charles bristled. “If you’re referring to my chair, Raven, then it really isn’t any of your business.”

Raven frowned. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re wussing out because of your wheelchair.” She flung her hands up in exasperation. “Charles, that’s ridiculous. Has Erik said _anything_ negative about your disability?”

“I - it’s not -” Charles faltered, torn between spilling the truth and clutching the secret tight to his chest. He trusted Raven, of course he did, but this was already embarrassing enough without her scolding him like a naughty child. For someone once so confident in his love life, it was hard for Charles to admit to such a stupid --no, _idiotic_ \-- mistake. One moment of panic had dashed his future of a relationship with Erik to pieces, thrown it to the wind before it ever had the chance to flourish. “It’s really not about that. Yes, I feel awkward in the wheelchair, but isn’t that understandable?”

Raven’s lips remained pressed in a thin line, though the tight hold of her shoulders loosened slightly. Charles continued, his tone not yet beseeching, “It’s the first time I’ve tried dating anyone since the accident that wasn‘t one of Moira‘s set ups. Of course my confidence feels knocked. It‘s bloody scary, Raven.”

Laying the sweater across his lap, Charles took Raven’s hand. The scales of her palm were smooth and slightly raised like scar tissue, pleasantly warmed from the coffee mug. “I just don’t see a future with Erik, gorgeous and charming as he is. Let me do this in my own way, at my own pace. Please?”

Raven hesitated, unspoken words on her lips -- then she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Ok. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I appreciate the nagging, really I do.” 

If only he had listened to it sooner. 

“I worry about you. You haven’t been yourself.” Raven perched on the edge of Charles’ dresser, still holding his fingers in a loose grip. “I know you’ve had to change the way you live and the way you date, but… I don’t want it to change who you are.”

Charles’ answering smile was somewhat wan. “Neither do I.” He brought her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over the curve of her knuckles. “I know I’ve been different, and I’m working on it. You must understand that it’ll take some time for us both to adjust fully. It hasn‘t even been a year yet.” 

Raven nodded gently, the burnished touch of her mind like a soft hand on his neck. “I just want you to be happy again, more like the Charles you used to be before all of this. Is that selfish of me?”

“Of course not. I know this has been hard on you, Raven.” He squeezed her knee. “Playing nursemaid to your brother isn’t something either of us wanted from our lives, I know that. You’ve been wonderful. What would I have done without you, hm?” 

“You’d have called the fire brigade to fetch your tea down for you.” Raven grinned shyly, tucking wayward strands of hair behind her ear. Charles mirrored the smile, glad of the offered olive branch.

“You’ve done so much for me. I owe you something pretty.”

Raven cuffed him lightly on the side of the head, mussing his carefully combed hair. “Pretty _and_ expensive.” Slipping off the dresser, she tugged Charles into a hug, the scent of coffee on her breath. “Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later, ok? If this guy asked you out for a second date then he obviously likes what he sees. Don‘t forget that.”

She pulled away, tugging a long sleeved, navy blue Henley out from the closet. “Wear this, with one of your blazers. It suits you and it’ll keep you toasty without the grandpa effect. Deal?”

“Deal.”

 

\----

 

Erik was already waiting by the time Charles arrived, sat patiently on the stone steps of [Bethesda Terrace](http://i.imgur.com/hZqWo.jpg). It had taken Charles longer than he’d expected to reach their meeting place, needing to take the long route around to bypass the Terrace’s staircases, and he was a little out of breath when he finally wheeled past the Angel fountain just after noon. His projection loped alongside him, hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

Erik stood as he approached, the pulse of light flaring from his mind far brighter than the feeble power of the grey-yellow sunshine overhead. Tourists passed them by, blurs of colour and foreign language, pigeons pecking between their feet. The hiss of falling water from the ornately carved fountain behind them mixed with late season birdsong and the beat of a far off radio - Erik smiled at him, and Charles ignored everything else.

Quickly, Charles held out the borrowed gloves before he could do something extraordinarily stupid, like pull the taller man down into a kiss. “I brought these for you.”

“Did you remember your own this time?” Erik’s eyes washed over Charles’ bare hands. Charles inwardly cursed.

“No.” He admitted sheepishly.

Erik pulled a face, shooing the gloves back toward Charles. “Then keep them for today. It‘s quite chilly.”

Freezing, more like, Charles thought to himself as he gratefully dragged the gloves over his cold hands. October was fast drawing to a close, Winter’s bite closing its sharp teeth over the city. A week until Halloween, some neighbourhoods already dressed in garish orange and black decoration, pumpkins and industrial-sized tubs of candy on sale in every store. Charles loved Halloween, the costume parties and the laughter of excited children. He always kept a big bowl of sugary treats by the door for the kids in their apartment block. 

He wondered if Erik liked to dress up. There were certainly a few choice costumes Charles would enjoy seeing him in - or taking off, slowly, one button at a time -

Clearing his throat, Charles forced his mind back on track. “So what kind of place are we scouting for, Erik?”

“Preferably one where we can get a crêpe?” Erik grinned and reached out, long fingers curling around Charles’ own. Charles held his breath, feeling the icy air stick in his lungs. The angle was slightly awkward when they began to move, and he had to switch to the electronic controls in order to keep his grip on Erik’s hand -- but oh, it was wonderful, perfect, Erik swinging their arms slightly as he led Charles away from the fountain toward a tree-lined avenue. Since when had such simple an act as holding hands brought him out in goosebumps?

[ ](http://imgur.com/i7txt)

There was a small crêpe stand just beyond the Terrace, around the winding path circling the lake. Even at this chilled time of year there were still some boats out on the water, their oars slicing deep ripples in its glassy surface. The park was always busy, night and day, sunshine and snow. Charles had never really minded in the past, but with Erik’s hand burning his skin even through the thick leather of the borrowed gloves, he found himself craving just a second of real privacy. Projecting to such a large group of people, hundreds of men, women and children running past them, walking alongside the opposite shore, stood above them on the Terrace - to say it was difficult was an understatement. A vast web of pulsing minds that Charles needed to keep a careful eye on, thin golden threads spinning out to catch any new flies that wandered close enough to possibly see the bare bones of truth. 

As if picking up on Charles’ distraction, Erik lightly squeezed his fingers. “Is this too soon?”

It took Charles a moment to realise that Erik was referring to their joined hands. He shook his head, a reflexive smile twisting his lips. “Not at all. I like it.”

“I thought maybe, because we were in public…” Erik’s voice trailed away. Charles shook his head again, more insistent this time.

“Really, my friend, I like it. I’m far from shy about my sexuality. Public or not.” 

Erik visibly brightened, crows feet creasing the corners of his eyes. “That’s good to know.”

More snippets of thought, Erik’s passion a vibrant slash of red against black:

_‘-who cares what people think-’  
‘-fuck them-’  
‘-proud of this-’  
‘-he’s so beautiful-’_

Charles flushed, heat prickling his neck. It seemed Erik was a man who gained pleasure in challenging society, fighting fiercely for both mutant and homosexual rights. He revelled in the fact that he was different, despising those that tried to quash and repress his kind. Charles could clearly see the rapid flipbook shuffle of blood-stained memories seeping between cracks in the man’s haphazardly constructed barriers. Erik had put both himself and other people in hospital more than once in the past, so fuelled by his own rage that he turned to blind violence.

Equally impassioned on the subject of rights, Charles had held numerous lectures and meetings at the library after hours, choosing to fight his battles with words and debate rather than his fists. His telepathy wasn’t a weapon, though that wasn’t to say Charles wouldn’t use it as such when pushed. He’d experienced the blunt end of anti-mutant extremists in the past, once overwhelmed by a large group when he was 22 or so, beaten half to death before using his telepathy to knock the attackers unconscious. Rational words hadn’t touched them, every attempt falling upon deaf ears. He’d had no other choice.

Even after witnessing a handful of such distressing memories, Charles couldn’t imagine seeing Erik angry enough to lash out so aggressively. This calm, beautiful man currently tapping a rhythm over Charles’ knuckles and pouting his lips while he perused the crêpe menu, torn between Nutella and chopped banana or raspberry sauce. Charles found himself smiling just watching him, a melancholic sadness weighing heavy on his heart. He needed to stop getting so attached.

Erik went for the Nutella, unable to resist yet another sugar fix. Charles eyed the man’s waist, a spike of hot jealousy souring his mouth. Since becoming paraplegic, Charles had found it increasingly difficult to keep weight off his stomach. Logan had shown him some exercises designed to strengthen his abdominal muscles, mostly using weighted medicine balls, but there was only so much his body could take and so far the exercises weren’t making all that much difference. His questionable addictions to chocolate and alcohol didn’t exactly help matters either.

Choosing a strawberry and banana, Charles cupped the sweet-smelling crêpe in a napkin and followed Erik over to the edge of the lake, nudging the brakes of his chair to keep him steady. “Are you going to celebrate Halloween this year, Erik?” 

“Depends what you mean by ‘celebrate’,” Erik replied thickly around a mouthful of pastry. “I don’t really go to parties or anything like that.” He swallowed, shrugged. “My Halloween’s usually consist of marathon re-runs of horror movies and eating any and all candy I have in the house. How about you? Do you dress up, go trick or treating?”

“You know, I probably would, if it wasn’t such a morally grey area to trick everyone into thinking they see a 12 year old child on their front porch then make off with their sweets.”

Erik glanced at him, licking a streak of Nutella off his lips. “You can do that? Make people see things, I mean?”

Charles almost choked on a strawberry, swallowing hard to force it down. “Well, yes, it‘s a part of it. Not that I like to do such a thing, of course.” Anxiety bubbled in his stomach, pushing something bitterly acidic up his throat and into his mouth. “I don’t do it unless I have to, and sometimes when I panic. A knee-jerk reaction, I guess.”

Erik nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. When my emotions become particularly strong I find it harder to control my abilities, too. I’ve melted lamps, ripped electrical wiring out of walls. My superintendent is used to me trashing my apartment by now.”

Charles nodded quietly and picked at his crêpe, appetite lost. That was too close.

“If you’re not doing anything on Halloween, you’re welcome to come over to my apartment and watch some movies with me.” Erik kept his eyes on the lake, taking determined bites out of his crepe and obviously fighting off a blush. 

“So long as you don’t tease me if I need to hide behind a cushion. I don’t like gore very much,” 

Erik snorted. “The cushions are yours.”

And bugger, had Charles just agreed to another date? 

Mentally kicking himself, Charles forced a smile and stuffed the rest of his crêpe into his mouth like a hamster filling its cheeks. This was going too far. Halloween was a full week away - seven whole days of dragging out the lie. Not that he actually needed to _see_ Erik again until then. If they could just keep away from each other until Halloween, maybe he would actually be able to pull this off without hurting him further.

Erik scrunched his empty crêpe wrapper into a ball, plucking Charles’ out of his hands and tossing them both into a nearby waste bin. “So your accent is English, right? What brought you to New York?”

“I was ten.” Dusting his gloves of any lingering crumbs, Charles shared the grainy image of his ten-year-old self: quiet and uncomfortable in knee-high socks and polished shoes. His shorts were just long enough to cover the Band-Aid on his knee, and Sharon Xavier had combed his unruly hair back from his slightly chubby face. “My father passed away when I was nine, and my mum met someone else shortly after. He had an estate in Westchester, so we moved across the pond. I guess I should have lost the accent by now but I’m rather fond of it.”

“What’s it like in England?”

Charles grinned. “Do you want me to tell you it’s full of truncheon-waving policemen skidding on ball-bearings?” He laughed softly, his breath a crystal cloud. “It’s cold. Wet. Beautiful in some parts. I didn’t really remember much, but I have a photo album somewhere at home.”

“Your sister, is she also a mutant?” Erik asked quietly, the burn of his curiosity a weave of smoke in the frigid air.

“Raven, yes. Adopted sister. She’s a shape shifter.” Charles unhooked the brakes of his chair as Erik began to move again, his projection just a few paces ahead of him until he caught up with them. Erik shot him a sideways grin.

“A shape shifter? Then how do I know you’re really you and not your sister in disguise?”

“Raven wouldn’t transform into me again if I begged her.” Gathering the memory, Charles sent it carefully to Erik, watching the man’s grey-green eyes cloud over as he watched the private film reel. Raven had changed into Charles only once, a practical joke that had horribly backfired when she had needed to use the bathroom and found only urinals free in the men’s toilets. Peeing through her brother’s body with her eyes tightly closed had scarred her for life. She’d scrubbed her hands almost to the point of bleeding for days afterwards.

Erik laughed, a wide, genuine smile alighting his face. He really was ridiculously handsome. “Okay, I believe you.”

“Do you have any family?” 

And like that, the moment was destroyed. 

Flash of searing mental pain, the sudden whiplash strike of barbed wire jerking Charles’ head to the side as though physically slapped. Disorientated, he slammed his eyes shut, wincing at the clamouring assault of unwanted visions. It was though a dam had broken in Erik’s mind, the stream of memory gushing inside, filling Charles up, sweeping him away in a syrupy tide of anguish and yearning. Through the daze he was aware of Erik pulling away from him, shrinking into himself. The smile had vanished from his face.

“Not anymore. Not really.” Erik’s shoulders hunched over into a defensive shell. Charles bit his lower lip, the sharp pain forcing him to concentrate.

“I’m sorry, my friend. I didn‘t mean to pry.”

The weight of Erik‘s sigh seemed to hollow his chest, threads of auburn hair falling to curtain his forehead. “My mother died when I was twelve. A brain tumour. It was very sudden.”

Charles listened, his silence offering more than any words he could possibly muster. Fragile sunlight filtering down through the canopy of trees cast intricate, spider-web patterns over Erik’s shoulders as he sucked a shuddering breath through his teeth. “My father and I left Germany, moved from place to place,” - _Poland, Switzerland, France_ \- “until we finally settled here when I was about 17. Soon after, he developed Early-Onset Alzheimer‘s. Rapidly deteriorated. He kept asking me where mother was, over and over, every single day. I could never quite decide if it was a blessing or wickedly cruel that he always forgot she was dead.”

Erik broke off with a shrug, suddenly feigning nonchalance. He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat, chin dipping between folds of the rust-coloured scarf around his neck. “He lives upstate in a Home now. I don’t visit anymore.” 

Charles opened his mouth, shut it again, words of comfort drying to sand in his throat. How was he supposed to respond to such a story? Say he was sorry? That he wished things had been different? Tell Erik of his own less-than-ideal childhood? Everything sounded so terribly cliché, even in his own head. 

“I wish there was something I could say to lessen your pain, Erik. Nobody should ever have to go through such hardship, especially one so young.” He pressed closer, daring to touch a hand to Erik’s arm.

Erik smiled at that, the barest twitch of his lips. He turned, just as Charles inched closer.

A crunch, a yelp, and Erik jerked back as the heavy aluminium chair rolled smartly over his toe. Charles gasped, his supposedly lead-footed projection flickering in and out of focus -- Erik didn’t notice, too busy folding to one knee to press a wide palm to his aching foot.

Swearing a blue streak, Charles’ hands hovered over Erik‘s shoulders, fingers like anxious butterflies unsure where to land. “Oh, shit, _bollocks_ , I’m terribly sorry. I’m so bloody clumsy sometimes. Are you alright?”

Bizarrely -- miraculously -- Erik began to laugh. A deep rumble that shook his back and shoulders, and when he looked up the two of them were almost eyelevel. It went without saying that Erik saw nothing other than Charles kneeling in front of him, the wheelchair little more than a whisper of restrained senses. “You’re heavier than you look.”

Charles laughed, relieved. “Maybe I should be mildly offended by that.” He squeezed Erik’s shoulders with both hands, noticing the bunch of hard muscle that barely gave under the pressure. “But I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“It’s certainly a new and interesting way to cheer me up.” Gingerly flexing his toe, Erik woefully poked at the side of his shoe. “I’ll live. But keep checking your mail for my hospital bill.”

Charles scrubbed his hands over his face, embarrassment bleeding through his skin in a blotchy rash of itchy red and pink. “I’m so sorry, how embarrassing. Can you forgi-”

The rest of his words were swallowed in the sudden press of Erik’s lips.

Charles’ eyes flew open, body jarring with shock. Erik’s lips were warm and slightly wind-chapped, neither advancing nor retreating -- just waiting, touched to Charles’ mouth in a silent search for consent. 

This was it, the moment Charles should seize with both fists. To push Erik away now, to reject his kiss, would finally mean snipping the wings of this fabricated relationship before it ever had chance to get off the ground. He was lying to Erik, plain and simple deceit, and though his actions were brought on through fear and impulse reaction, that was no reason to keep up the charade for any longer than truly needed. He ought to move back. Apologise. Tell the truth.

But, God, that mouth was so hot, so tempting. Electric shivers of Erik’s desire like invisible fingers that tugged Charles by the chin, their whispered words so sweet, so filthy -

\- then Erik was licking his lips, scarcely enough to wet the surface, but that brief touch of his tongue to Charles’ lower lip succeeded in snapping the fraying thread of Charles’ restraint. He pushed forward with a soft hitch of breath, sealing their mouths together in a kiss he was sure he felt down to the very tips of his toes.

 _‘Charles’_ and Erik was bringing a hand up to cup the nape of Charles’ neck, fingers threading through the shorter curls there. Brief, shallow kisses became deeper, slow to the point of languid. Erik tasted of creamy chocolate and hazelnuts, icing sugar, the burnt aftershock of coffee. Charles shivered, hands fisting the fabric of Erik’s coat. 

The punishment for his moment of weakness was wickedly cruel.

Forced to watch from the sidelines as Erik ringed laps around[Wollman Ice Rink](http://i.imgur.com/3VDYl.jpg) with the projected image of a man completely in over his head. The vision laughed wildly, clutched Erik’s arms while they spun in giddy circles, Bambi legs flying out from under him when the slip of the ice became too much. Erik pulled him back up with a playful smirk, the glittering world of ice and fairylights narrowing to only them when he kissed him again.

 

\----

 

 _Operation: Keep Away From Erik_ didn’t quite go to plan. 

Charles had barely left Erik at the doorstep, the ghosts of kisses still tingling his lips, when his phone buzzed in his coat’s breast pocket.

Grinning despite himself, Charles slipped the phone back into his coat and rolled smoothly to the elevator, pushing the button for the seventh floor. Unforgiving mirrors on the back wall presented him with his own goofy smile, and he quickly forced his lips into a wobbly attempt at a straight line. 

Control. One week and counting until Halloween. Then he could sit Erik down and explain, apologise. Leave. 

He could do this. He wouldn’t need to see Erik ever again.

Pretending the notion didn’t fill his innards with lead, Charles left the elevator when it rumbled to a stop at his floor and rummaged through his pocket for the cool shape of his keys. He didn’t notice the unfamiliar pair of shoes on the mat when he slipped inside, nor did he catch on to the whisper of another mind until he was framed in the living room door and a pair of big brown eyes were gazing at him over the back of the couch.

“Angel-!” Charles blinked, more than a little taken aback to see his old nursing assistant so casually lounging on his stuffy couch. Immediately his thoughts turned to ice: did he need to go back to hospital again? Had they found something deadly on his scans that they had previously overlooked? Raven - oh God, where was Raven -

“Jeez, Charles, way to be polite.” There she was, padding in from the kitchen with two glasses of pink wine, handing one to Angel as she sank down onto the sofa. Blue and scaled from head to foot, which shocked Charles even further. He’d never seen her show her true form to anyone other than him before. “You remember Angel, don’t you?”

Angel smiled, waggling slim fingers from the stem of her wine glass. “Hey, Charles, good to see you. You’re looking great.”

Shaking himself from his initial bewilderment, Charles laughed apolitically with a shake of his head, gliding further into the room. “Of course. I’m sorry, I was just… surprised. It’s lovely to see you again, Angel, and without a wash cloth this time. How are you?”

“Can’t complain.” She flicked loose strands of wavy brown hair from her shoulder, bringing her knees up to fold beneath her. The air of the room felt odd, almost uncomfortable, as though he’d just strolled into something he shouldn’t.

 _‘Will you please_ get out,’ Raven’s voice hissed in his mind, as bright and clear as a bell. ‘We’re trying to have a private conversation.’

‘ _In the living room? You have a perfectly private bedroom back there. This is my house too, remember.’_

 _‘I didn’t think you’d be home this early. We’re going to watch a movie,_ alone. _And she’s spending the night.’_

 _‘Oh! So…_ Angel _is your old friend?’_

_‘Get out.’_

Charles’ look of open-mouthed surprise quickly melted into a charming smile when Angel’s eyes returned to fix on him. He held out a hand, shaking her tiny fingers over the back of the couch. “Well I‘d love to stay and chat, Angel, but I’m afraid I’m terribly busy. Lots of paperwork to do. Running a library isn’t all reading books and stamping things, unfortunately. Please forgive me. See you again?”

Angel flashed him a thumbs up, sipping her wine. Another mental kick from Raven had Charles retreating, winding his chair through the hall to his room. 

Well that was… unexpected. 

Charles shut the door behind him, trying to process this onslaught of new information. It had been a long time since Raven had dated anyone. Almost three years, in fact. All of her previous partner’s -- long term or not -- had been male, and never had she revealed her true form to them. 

 

He wasn’t opposed to his sister dating another woman - as a bisexual man that leaned toward other men, it would be a tad hypocritical of him, after all. No, it was just… well, a shock. Raven had never expressed interest in her own gender before.

But wait: hadn’t Raven dreamt of Angel recently? Golden and glowing on a carrousel horse. It could certainly be interpreted into something romantic, even erotic. Why hadn’t Charles realised sooner?

He sighed softly, carefully shielding himself from the gentle shimmer of Angel’s thoughts. He didn’t want to accidentally catch them kissing or… doing other things. He and Raven deeply respected each other’s privacy, and Charles flicked on the TV to obscure the faraway murmur of low voices. 

If Raven felt comfortable enough to reveal herself to a lover, then good luck to her. It was certainly a first, and a wonderful sign of something special blossoming between the two women. Raven had always been so painfully self-conscious of her blue form, and to be honest, Charles hadn’t really helped the situation. As a child he had encouraged her to pick a ‘normal’ face for use in the public eye, the two of them hiding their powers from their mother and definitely from their step-father. Kurt Marko had always been wary and untrusting of mutants, even refusing to believe that his own son, Cain, held the gene. 

It had started off exciting. A secret they could share, practising their gifts in the privacy of their own rooms. Raven had often morphed into Sharon Xavier, though her impersonations of their tipsy, half-awake mother had quickly become less funny the older they got, understanding settling sharp in their hearts. 

Raven hit puberty, and suddenly their games stopped. She began to question him, their parents, the world. Why couldn’t she show her true colours? Why was she like this? Why was she forced to hide in the shadows?

Charles clung to Raven even when she tried to pull away from him, forever harbouring the fear that she would be taken away, categorised, experimented on. A mutation so vivid - she would be met with fear out in the real world, maybe even violence. Charles simply couldn’t handle the thought of his beautiful, sweet, amazing little adopted sister coming to such a fate.

He had jumped at the chance of moving in with her the moment they were both old enough and had scraped together some money of their own. Raven was free to wear her own skin now, away from the oppressive crush of their parents, though the chains of fear and overprotective love from her brother continued to bind her. 

Maybe having someone like Angel around was the tonic they both needed.

Buzz of his phone again, shaking the lining of his coat. Charles shrugged out of it, retrieving the phone and draping the coat over the back of a chair. 

Charles faltered, absently chewing his lower lip. He did need to collect his contact lenses, and surely watching Erik try on sneakers for a couple of hours couldn’t be classified as a date, right…?

Right.

 

\----

 

Only it didn’t stop there.

The innocent trip to the Mall turned into drinks at a nearby bar, Charles growing more inebriated with each strong glass of scotch he downed. Huddled around a low table, Erik leaned his elbows on the polished wood while he asked of Charles’ family, his hobbies and personal life. He didn’t even crack a giggle when Charles admitted he quite enjoyed going to the odd science fiction convention now and then, and how he had once dressed up as Jean-Luc Picard. Erik looked at him like he was the only man in the room, their eye contact breaking only when either of them glanced down to swirl the ice in his glass. 

After the Mall and the impromptu bar trip came breakfast at Charles’ favourite café. 

And after that, a trip to the art gallery for an exhibit on Jewish art and craft. It didn’t surprise Charles to find Erik was Jewish, though he did feel immediately guilty about scoffing a bacon sandwich at breakfast the day before. Erik only laughed when Charles voiced his regret, assuring him he didn’t care about the religious views of others. So long as beliefs weren’t flung in his face, he was fine with Charles eating pork and drinking non-kosher wine and celebrating Christmas, all the usual things. He showed Charles the star of David pendant around his neck, the only heirloom he had left over from his mother.

Charles let his mind wander into the gutter, though thankfully Erik didn’t catch the way stealthy eyes lingered over his crotch. He’d never slept with anyone cut before, surprisingly enough given the statistics of New York’s circumcised men to Charles’ bed partners. 

Not that he would be sleeping with Erik. No, he was breaking up with him on Sunday. 

Right after the game of chess after work on Friday. 

 

\----

 

Raven managed to avoid Charles for a full three days, her text messages elusively short and to the point. She’d been spending a lot of her free time with Angel, out at the movies or the shopping Mall and staying the night at Angel’s modest little apartment a few blocks from the hospital. Charles had never felt so alone in his own house, unused to the simple company of his shadow. He quickly found himself missing her quiet morning singing and the fond scratch of fingernails through his hair.

It wasn’t until Friday evening that he finally managed to corner her in the kitchen, his chair a heavy blockade between the door and any hope of escape into the living room. Raven delicately ignored him, elbow deep in soapy dishwater. Her mind growled the moment he brushed against it, snapping phantom jaws in warning.

Something didn’t add up. Raven had never actively avoided him like this before, even after the odd blazing argument that left both of them blinking back furious tears. They were siblings, even if not biological: of course they were going to fight. Space was always an issue, especially in such a small apartment. They each had their own little habits that the other despised. Raven hated the way Charles left half-finished mugs of tea lying around the living room and chewed pen caps while he worked. Charles loathed it when Raven would toss her dirty clothes at the laundry basket and not bother to pick them up if they missed. Silly little things that grated on each others nerves - like every other relationship in the world. 

But this… Charles forced a steadying breath. The colours of Raven’s mind were loud: angry, resentful. She was cautious.

Charles wracked his brain for anything he could have done or said to upset his sister lately. The last time they’d spoken face to face was when he’d walked in on her and Angel after his date at Central Park. Maybe he hadn’t made enough time for her, had neglected her in favour of another date with Erik. They were in dire need of a movie night, curling up on the couch together with a pizza and giant tub of ice cream. A Saturday night tradition he sorely missed.

Busying himself with the drying up, Charles tugged down a tea towel and began rinsing soap suds from the cleaned plates Raven was stacking on the draining board. “I feel like we haven’t chatted in ages.”

“It’s been three days, Charles. I’ve hardly dropped off the face of the earth.” Another dish, a wave of bubbles washing over the worktop. Charles picked it up, fidgeting with the edge of the towel.

“Are you alright?”

Raven stiffened, her shoulders a tense line. “Fine.”

“How’s Angel? Things seem to be going really well with her, hm? I’m pleased for you.”

Raven finally looked at him, a sidelong roll of her eyes that set prickles of irritation up Charles’ neck. He set the dried plate down on his knee.

“What was that look for?”

Raven scoffed, the next plate hitting the draining board with a clatter. “Forget it.”

A deep furrow settled in Charles’ forehead, the drying up forgotten. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me.”

“Why doesn‘t that surprise me?” Raven snapped sarcastically, pulling her hands free of the basin to drip water and soap suds across the kitchen tiles. “Yes, things are really great with Angel, thank you very much. Now get out of my face.”

She tried to dodge around him, bare feet quick on the tiles but Charles’ hand shot out to grip the worktop, creating an effective barrier between Raven and the door. “Raven, what on earth are you talking about? I’ve hardly seen you this week, and since I found out about you and Angel you’ve shut yourself away from me. What have I done wrong?”

  


Raven growled through her teeth, angrily swiping water off her hands. “Angel is good for me, Charles. Did you know she used to be a stripper before she became a nursing assistant?” She folded her arms defensively, expression stony and challenging. “She wasn’t afraid to show her body, her skin. She gives me back all the self-confidence you’ve sucked out of me since we were kids.”

Charles jerked as though punched, torn between guilt and fierce anger. Now things were starting to make sense: this was an argument that had been building for over ten years. “I was trying to protect you, Raven.”

“Did I ever _ask_ for your protection?”

“You’re my sister. What was I supposed to do?” 

“You were supposed to be there for me, Charles, not hold me back. You smothered me. Even now I feel afraid to go outside like this.” She waved at her dark skin, golden eyes flashing. “And it all stems from you trying so hard to keep me looking _normal_.”

Charles looked away, the set of his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Who would try and hurt me? You were so afraid of your mom taking you to a mental asylum for hearing voices that you transferred that fear onto me.”

A swell of bitter anger twisted Charles’ face into something ugly. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do to keep you safe.”

“Lying to people isn’t difficult when you believe you have a reason.” Raven sniffed. Charles saw red.

“Is that so?”

Raven staggered back on a gasp, a sudden gush of sepia images crowding her mind like the rustle and tumble of aged papers falling from a forgotten shelf.

_There was Charles, a young boy of no older than 12, begging Cain to promise not to tell Sharon or Kurt what he’d just inadvertently discovered. Raven slept soundly in an armchair behind them, red hair swept back from her head, the harsh blue of her skin clashing horribly with the pink dress she wore. Cain pouted his lips in mock thought. A good two feet taller than Charles, he towered over the younger boy, muscles bulging from his arms when he crossed them tight over his chest. A mutant himself, not that he really knew at this point. Big bones, Kurt said. A growth spurt._

_“Tell you what, shrimp. You be my slave forever and I won’t tell dad or Sharon that she’s a freak.” He jerked his chin toward Raven. Charles struggled to breathe, his little heart pounding against his ribs. His telepathy wasn’t advanced enough for the intricate action of wiping a single thought from a memory: if he tried, it was entirely possible he would destroy his step-brother’s memory completely, leaving Cain a gibbering wreck of compact muscle and bowl-cut hair._

_Defeated, Charles had nodded, standing as straight as possible. Bribery wouldn’t work, money and sweets and possessions nothing when compared to a secret at huge as this. Cain had beat him up for the first time that night. The bruises were explained away easily to Raven, a silly accident involving Charles’ clumsy feet and the tree house._

For nine years he had bowed to Cain, taking the beatings and the extra homework and the chores, only escaping the torture when his step-brother finally left to join the army. He hadn’t seen him since.

Charles ripped himself back from Raven’s head, the creamy white walls of the kitchen suddenly too bright after the wood-panelled hallways of his old home. Fury and guilt swarmed thick in his stomach, battling for dominance over his heart.

Raven was panting hard, supporting herself against the worktop as thick tears tracked navy-blue streaks down her face. Her voice was small when she said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you.” Charles ran a hand over the nape of his neck, coming back damp with sweat. “You know how Kurt would have reacted if he’d found out. You‘d have been taken away from me.”

Raven’s answering words choked off in her throat, and suddenly she was dropping to her knees and folding her arms in Charles’ lap. “ _Charles_. I’m so sorry. I didn‘t--” she broke off on a sob, and the wave of anguish that followed left Charles covered in ice-cold goosebumps. “You should have told me. I could have done something about it.”

“Like what? Fight him? He had a physical mutation built on strength, Raven. At that young stage, we’d have been powerless against him.”

“I could have… I could have turned into mom. I could have made him think she was okay with our mutations.”

“He’d have found out it was you one way or another. Then things would have been ten times worse.” Charles shook his head, a wry smile shaping his lips. “He may have looked dumber than a mule but Cain was surprisingly smart when he wanted to be.”

“But he was a mutant too.” Raven’s fingers tightened on Charles’ unfeeling thighs. “I remember when he found out, when he put his head through the fucking wall because he couldn‘t stop running.” Raven’s voice bubbled with wet laughter, more pained than amused. 

“That’s why he left.” Stroking his hands over her hair, Charles blinked hard against the tears threatening to spill. “Do you understand? Even Cain would rather take his chances in the army than face his own father finding out about him. He was just as scared as we were at the end.”

“You sound like you pity him.”

“I do. He had a monster for a father: that could affect anyone.”

Raven snuffled and kissed Charles’ knee. “I’m so sorry. I feel like such a brat. All this time I thought your fear was selfish, and now I see… Fuck, Charles. Forgive me?”

Charles bent double to press his lips to nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of perfume and shampoo. “I’m sorry too. Everything I did was meant to help, and all the while I was just damaging you further.”

A rustle of hair and fabric as she shook her head. “We’re both royal fuck-ups, aren’t we?”

“Quite.” 

“It’s going really well with Angel, Charles. She makes me feel… special. Not different.” Raven straightened up, dry tears leaving dark stains on Charles’ trousers.

Charles smiled and stroked his fingers over the pad of her cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve finally found someone to make you see that.”

“Maybe we can double date sometime? I‘d like to meet Erik, give him the ‘hurt my brother and die’ speech.” Raven’s small smile became mischievous.

Charles screwed up his nose. “Remind me never to introduce the two of you.”


	4. Chapter 4

  


**Chapter Four**

_‘Heavy hearts, token words, all the hopes I ever had,  
fade like footprints in the sand.’_

 

There was a small plastic skeleton hanging from the peephole of Erik‘s front door, its misshapen skull split wide in a toothy leer. Charles tipped his head, amused by the simple decoration. Erik’s door was vastly bare in comparison to the apartment opposite, whose tenants had clearly gone all out this year. Charles could barely squeeze his chair past the mountain of carved jack-o-lanterns and fake tombstones littering the hallway, candy corn spilling from the topmost pumpkin to crunch beneath his wheels. It was charming, really - the neighbourhood kids would love it. 

Adjusting the cream silk cravat tickling his neck one last time, Charles held his breath and rapped smart knuckles on the door. It had taken hours of grit-jawed patience for him to find a costume he liked enough to buy, Raven having the time of her life following him around the costume store, all blond hair and rosy cheeks. 

Vampire Charles. Zombie Charles. Mad Scientist Charles and Naughty Devil Charles, peaked wizard hats and werewolf makeup. At one point Raven had even shook a [Honey Monster](http://i.imgur.com/mmPw1.jpg) costume at him with a hopeful smile on her face. The answering scowl she received soon withered that idea to dust. 

Finally, just when Charles was beginning to lose the will to live, they had stumbled across a rather stunning 1800’s regency costume tucked at the back of the store. Charles had stroked his fingers down the shirt, admiring the wide, tapered sleeves and the brocade waistcoat in patterned leaves of blue and silver. It had been love at first sight, especially when he noticed the navy blue double-breasted tailcoat, the breeches and stockings and a woven silk cravat. Charles’ not-so-secret adoration of Jane Austen and the Bronté sisters compelled him to hand over the money before he’d even tried it on.

Raven had patiently helped him into it when they got home, back in her blue skin, eyes sparkling with something almost like pride. “You look gorgeous.” She buckled his shoe with a final flourish, slapping him on the knee. “Who’d have thought you could scrub up so well?””

But now, gazing up at the bones of this understated plastic skeleton, Charles felt ridiculously overdressed. He crossed his fingers, desperately hoping that Erik had kept his promise to wear even a simple costume tonight.

The door swung open, and Charles’ jaw dropped.

Erik was wearing a black suit tracked with thin white pinstripes, so perfectly tailored that it clung almost obscenely to his legs and the trim cut of his waist. A white shirt beneath, topped with a large bowtie in the shape of a bat mid-flight. His face was lightly powdered, hair swept back off his forehead, and black lines were drawn either side of his mouth to create the effect of one long, skeletal grin.

Charles laughed in delight, extending a polite hand. “[Jack Skellington](http://i.imgur.com/XIf50.jpg), I presume? I had no idea you were a Tim Burton fan, Erik.”

Erik remained rooted to the spot, mouth opening and closing in dumb shock as his widened eyes slowly travelled the length of Charles’ projected body.

“Charles, you - you look - wow, I -” Erik paused to clear his throat, shaking his head in disbelief. “You look amazing.”

“Likewise.” Really, how Erik even managed to make dressing up as a plasticine skeleton from a Tim Burton movie look sexy was completely beyond him. The suit practically moulded to his lean figure, emphasising each indecent inch of those long limbs and svelte torso. Charles felt himself lick his lips, prickly heat gathering under the gauzy fabric of his cravat. 

Snapping from his reverie, Erik stepped forward to brush a soft kiss to the projection’s extended hand. Charles’ gripped the wheel of his chair tight enough to bleed his knuckles white: an odd feeling indeed to feel jealous of what was essentially yourself.

Erik’s apartment was small yet impeccably neat, subtly rendered in a wash of neutral creams and browns. A suede couch sat by one wall overlooking the TV and, beyond that, a small dining table. Charles noticed it was already set for two, and his stomach gave an excited little flip - he’d expected them to call a pizza place or something, maybe push the boat out and get a Chinese takeaway.

The kitchen space was sectioned off with a waist-high wall, three stools pushed up close to the wooden worktops. Charles could just about see an island in the center, with heavy-lined pots and pans hanging overhead. It was surprisingly old fashioned, the stove one of those massive steel contraptions with a range and a space beneath for stacked firewood. Only one door lead out to another room, presumably Erik’s bedroom, though it was closed. Damn. He’d have to make the excuse of going to the bathroom if he wanted to snoop around some more.

The decoration was light, only a couple of framed photographs and a thick throw over the couch giving it that personal touch. No pointlessly pretty ornaments or abstract art on the walls, not even a houseplant to brighten the place up. It was as though Erik still hadn’t unpacked the rest of his belongings, fully prepared to gather the few material goods on display and leave at the drop of a hat.

Still, the room was warm and welcoming, softly lit. The bare floorboards were covered with rugs, muffling the heavy roll of Charles’ chair.

“You have a beautiful apartment, Erik.” Charles wheeled himself further into the living space, and it was then that he caught the scent of cooking curling in from the kitchen. His stomach growled embarrassingly loud, mouth nearly watering - he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, too nervous about the impending date to face any food Raven had tried to force feed him. 

Erik grinned at the rumble, sliding behind the kitchen counter to fiddle with a few dials on the stove. “Dinner won’t be too long.”

“You really didn’t have to go through this much trouble.” Charles could feel his ears begin to heat again, unwelcome guilt gnawing at his gut. No date had ever cooked for him before. Restaurants and take out and the odd bowl of cereal after a one night stand, sure, but never a full blown home-cooked meal. 

Charles dragged a hand through his hair. This wasn’t going to be an easy night.

The clink of glass distracted him, and Charles looked up to find a flute of red wine sitting on the counter top. Bloody _hell_. Wine and dinner; now all they needed was candlelight and mood music and Charles was going to suffer a nervous breakdown.

“It’s no trouble, trust me. I like to cook when I get the chance.” Erik was drinking from a separate bottle, presumably kosher, and when he leaned over the counter to beg a kiss from his projection, Charles’ lips ached to taste the sweet wine for himself.

“I rented some movies.” Erik continued, waving a hand at a small stack of DVDs beside the TV. “They came highly recommended by the store clerk, though I’m not holding my breath. She hadn’t even heard of _Poltergeist_.”

Charles picked up the topmost DVD, pulling a face at the title. “I heard these ones are pretty gory.” He rifled through the stack, growing more and more unimpressed with each slasher-fic gore fest revealed to him. “I was frightened by the _Blair Witch Project_ , Erik. I don’t think I’m going to handle many of these very well.”

Erik appeared at his elbow, kneeling down beside him. “Want to stick with a comedy?”

“That’s not very keeping in spirit with Halloween.”

“Pick one from my collection then, if you‘re so desperate to be scared.” Erik grinned, makeup stretching his smirk impossibly wider, and Charles gave up.

Noses bumped, hearts stopped; lips skimmed once, twice, again, again. Erik responded immediately, thick eyelashes flickering shut to fan across the high arch of his cheekbones. Sweet, slow kisses that left Charles dizzy, his hands seeking purchase in Erik‘s hair and clinging on tight. Stopping to share breath, a barely-there brush of lips, and then Charles all but melted into him, letting his inhibitions fly just for a moment. He could have this, surely -- just one kiss, just one night. The temptation was too strong, Erik’s lips too warm and pliant, the hand on his cheek sliding to his neck, to his chest, surely able to feel the rabbit-quick thump of his pulse. 

Deeper now, chalk-white makeup baring the imprint of Charles‘ fingertips. Erik hummed appreciatively, a soft vibration swallowed by the crush of lips - and Charles was lost, eagerly drowning in the rich taste of sweet red wine. He sucked Erik’s lower lip between his teeth in a light nip, earning a soft gasp and a spike of lust that burned vivid crimson behind his closed eyelids.

The shrill buzz of a kitchen timer shattered the heavy moment, Erik pulling away from Charles’ lips with a disappointed growl. Charles fought to catch his breath, the room spinning. He couldn’t remember a time when kissing had brought him out in such a fever. True, it had been over six months since he’d last kissed someone so deeply, but now he thought about it - when was the last time he had kissed someone just for the sake of kissing them? Not with the intention of taking them to bed or getting in their pants; just to feel the plush weight of their lips against his, the warmth of another human body so close.

He needed air, and a stiff drink. Some space, though his tingling body begged to differ. Damn the fabulous costume and its multiple layers. The apartment felt far too hot, a stuffy heat that set a damp sheen to his skin. Erik’s mind sang to him, cried for more, another kiss, another touch, even as Erik coolly stood up and hurried to the kitchen, calling over the loud hum of the extractor fan for Charles to make himself comfortable at the dining table.

Dinner was - perhaps predictably - glorious. A starter of root vegetable soup and crusty bread followed by fresh pink salmon and white wine sauce. When Erik pulled a sticky, toffee-laced cake out of the oven, Charles had to bite his lip to stop himself blurting out a marriage proposal. 

Easy conversation over the comfortable clatter of knives and forks, Erik shyly opening to questions about his father, until he was growing almost animated in his tales of Gruyeres and Lugano, Burgundy and the Loire Valley. He and his father had moved rapidly from place to place, never settling longer than a few months. They made their money through odd jobs in tiny villages, sleeping anywhere from ditches to wine cellars to the bedrooms of grateful patrons. At times he had attended local schools, picking up a multitude of languages. He had never seen the need for friends, choosing to single out the few kindred souls he could find between reading second hand books and spending time with his grieving father. Even now, as a golden rule, Erik rarely stayed in one place for longer than a year or two, keeping his apartment and contact list modest.

Charles didn’t miss the way Erik’s eyes covertly washed over him from the rim of his wine glass, the hopeful taint of change and acceptance tentatively pushing to the surface. Charles shivered under the speculation, glad when the dishes were cleaned away and Erik suggested they start a movie.

Waiting until Erik padded into the kitchen to refresh their drinks, Charles hurriedly transferred himself onto the couch and pushed his wheelchair around to the side, safely out of the way of any tripping feet. The suede was soft under his palms, and when Erik sank down beside him and reached back to tug the throw over their legs, Charles couldn’t help but feel relieved, smoothing the thick woollen fabric over his knees.

“Think you can handle the dark?” Erik grinned and flicked off the lamp, bathing the room in silken shadows and leaving only the bright flare of the TV screen to cast flickering lights over their faces. Almost like being at the cinema, Erik’s warm shoulder pressed up tight against his own.

Charles raised an audacious chin. “I think I’ll manage. And if not - ” he grabbed a squashy pillow, “ - I have my shield at the ready.”

Erik chuckled warmly, shaking his head, and set the DVD to play.

Hugging the pillow to his chest, Charles took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, trying hard to give the film his full concentration. A typical haunted house flick perfect for a lazy Halloween, filled to the brim with suspenseful violin notes and vanishing phantoms. A fair few jumpy scenes -- but it wasn’t the ghoulish faces in mirrors or disembodied voices that frightened Charles. Far scarier than any ghost story was how beautifully _normal_ this felt: this being tucked up on the couch watching horror movies with a man crafted from his fantasies. He was falling too deep, too hard, too fast, blindly following the call of his heart instead of stopping to listen to the more rational voice in his head. 

Charles had never been any good at resisting the charms of handsome men and women, and Erik… it was scary to look at him and feel his stomach tie in knots. The desire to bed him was there - of course it was: Erik was gorgeous. But much brighter than that was the pleasure brought from these simple moments. Eating a meal together, holding hands in the park, arguing the age-old debate of _Star Wars_ Vs _Star Trek_. Then this: sitting shoulder to shoulder in Erik’s apartment, laughing whenever the other jumped at something on the TV. It was terrifying. The stirring of an emotion Charles didn’t dare to name, and one he knew was echoed right back at him.

And to think that he could fix it all so easily: a quick tweak of his memory banks and Erik would forget he had ever met Charles that day in the café. Their time together would become nothing more than a bittersweet story for Charles to try and repress, a new reason for him to escape into the nightmares of others. Surely it would be kinder that way. No broken hearts other than his own, only Charles left to lick his own self-inflicted wounds.

So easy, so quick… like flicking a light switch…

But then Erik was turning to him, face and eyes and lips all too close, far too close. Fingers in his bangs dragging back fallen waves.

“You really suit this era.” Voice like molten lead and eyes to match. “Maybe you were a Lord in a past life.”

“What makes you think this is a costume?” Charles swallowed, surprised at the lowered tones of his own voice. “For all you know I truly am a Lord, and my ‘normal’ clothes are really the disguise.”

Erik smiled. “Then you must forgive me, My Lord.”

Charles didn’t need to ask why - Erik was already leaning forward, his movement a soft rustle of couch cushions and shadowed light. Lips sealing to his, rough and a little unsure at first, until the hot brush of Erik’s tongue traced the seam of his mouth and Charles gasped, opened up, hands splaying over the back of Erik’s neck to urgently drag him closer. 

The fever from their earlier kiss returned in an electric shiver, clashing soul to soul and body to body. Erik’s hands were shaking when they circled Charles’ waist. Even through the thick fabric of jacket and waistcoat and shirt, they burned and Charles moaned into his mouth, licking away the lingering taste of makeup powder and toffee sauce. 

Hard to remind himself not to want this when Erik’s hands were tugging at his clothes, the throw slipping forgotten to the floor. Charles could barely spare a brief flash of fitful panic for his unmoving legs before Erik was grabbing his thighs and tugging Charles further onto the couch, bearing him down into suede that tickled the back of his neck. He knew without seeing them that his legs would be awkwardly spread, his right calf still hanging off the edge of the sofa, but who cared when Erik was running his tongue over his lips and leaning in to whisper in his ear, a deep vibration that hummed straight through Charles’ chest. “Do you want… I mean, we could take this to my bedroom - if you wanted.”

Before Charles could speak, before he could even think about drawing the breath for it, he was assaulted with image after image of pure lust and vivid fantasy, of Erik’s powerful body trapped beneath him, Charles a geisha of startling blue eyes and blood red lips. Charles holding his wrists to the mattress, head thrown back from mindless pleasure as he drove into Erik’s body relentlessly slowly, Erik desperately keening for _more, faster, harder, please, Charles, please, oh God_ -

Charles gasped, loud and sharp. God yes, he wanted that, wanted it so much his entire being ached for it. Deep concentration flickered, wavered and - _fuck_ \- his wheelchair slowly swam into view above the swell of the armrest. Erik’s metal senses pricked to this new baseline tune and - _oh, please, no no no_ \- Erik abruptly lifted his head to search for its source.

Charles caught his breath, held it -- time seemed to shudder to a halt, frozen heart hanging suspended. He dived inside, ripped at the webbed threads of mind and memory.

_Forget. Forget._

Erik’s eyes glazed over, blue-grey marbles in his powder-streaked face. His hold slackened on Charles’ shirt.

A nightmare. Charles’ stomach leapt into his throat and he was plummeting, breaking apart, choked with his own fear -

Then Erik was blinking, smiling, diving back down to nip at Charles’ chin and nuzzle the tender skin beneath. Not a single thought toward the hastily covered chair, toward Charles’ terrible slip up. He had forgotten.

The guilt was terrible, a crash of emotion so strong he sobbed from it, chest and shoulders convulsing. Erik misread his cry for one of pleasure, and it was only then that Charles even realised that Erik’s hand had drifted between his legs, palming the obvious outline of an erection Charles couldn’t feel. He knew it was possible - a Reflex Erection, the pamphlet had called it, a natural reaction to direct stimulation. 

Charles squirmed, fingers ripping at Erik’s shirt buttons, the bat-like tie thrown haphazard to drape over the TV. Remorse ravaged his heart, bitter tears sharp where they remained trapped behind blue eyes. God; to think that he had done something so despicable, the cherry on the top of actions that would already disgust him were he to sit back and look upon them from the outside, from a place where admiration and love weren’t there to cause hindrance. How could even _think_ about wiping himself from Erik’s mind? Who was he to play God like that? Stealing that split second had been bad enough, a white hot agony that Charles could only writhe away from and hope to dilute with kisses and touches and silent pleas. 

Skin, finally, Erik’s shirt hanging open. Charles scraped nails down the slim torso revealed to him, catching over peaked nipples and hard lines of muscle. Erik‘s mouth dropped open as he bowed into the contact, catlike beauty and something undeniably dark in the glow of his eyes. Charles tried to look away and found himself trapped.

“Charles--” Erik sounded so broken, his head a whirlpool of colours so vivid that Charles was nearly blinded by them. “--driving me _crazy_.”

Charles opened his mouth to gasp some kind of reply and promptly found it swallowed in a guttural moan the moment Erik’s lips touched his neck. The pamphlet had briefly mentioned heightened sensation in the neck and chest after a spinal cord injury, though it certainly hadn’t mentioned _this_. Charles all but mewled, noises he had never thought himself capable of. He wished that he could lift his legs to wrap around Erik’s waist and pin him in place. 

Quickly picking up on the intense reaction, Erik did it all over again; a slow trail of searing kisses from chin to Adam’s apple, one long finger pushing aside the cravat to nip at his jugular. Charles was sure that he could feel Erik smirk against his skin, which was both hot and so frustrating that Charles found himself wanting to scream and cry with the need to flip this delicious man over and fuck him into the suede -

“Erik--” and Charles was claiming his mouth in another kiss, arching his neck to do so, roughly tugging Erik’s hips until the taller man slotted more firmly into place. Hips aligned, lips crushed, heart to racing heart. Erik must have pulled his hand away for it was suddenly tangled in Charles’ hair, a rasping groan tearing from his throat as the couch shook with each rut and shattering downward thrust. He came with a strangled shout, filling Charles’ nerves with the shocking, subzero plunge of second-hand ecstasy.

\-- Calm.  
Breathe -- 

Slowly regaining his senses, Charles tipped his head back against the arm of the couch. He hadn’t orgasmed himself, but the shared whiteout of Erik’s own had been… sublime. A release of tension so tightly coiled that Charles had very nearly shaken apart from it.

Erik was breathing heavily, the muscles of his stomach clenching as he struggled to push up onto his elbows. His forehead touched Charles’ shoulder, a tender gesture that stabbed at Charles’ chest. He glanced down at himself, the beaming, satiated smile filled with amusement. “It’s a good job this suit isn’t rented.”

Charles laughed, perhaps a little manically. Each ripple of contented happiness from Erik’s head to his was instantly smothered with his own hideous self-loathing.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  


 

\----

 

“Doughnut?”

Charles glanced up from his stack of paperwork to find a ring of powdered sugar held barely an inch from his nose, Moira’s beaming face just visible through the hole in the center. It wasn’t often that people caught him off guard enough to sneak up on him, especially those whose minds he could pick out from a crowd of millions.

Charles shook his head, his stomach gurgling at the very sight of food. “No, thank you. What are you doing here?”

“I haven’t seen you in over a week, Charles.” Moira looked almost wounded, dropping the doughnut back into a big pink box. “That has to be some kind of record. Didn’t you miss me?”

Charles scrubbed a hand over his eyes, twisting his chair around to properly face his friend. God, had it really been that long since he’d seen her that morning in the café? His whole life seemed to have turned upside down - how had he done it without her smiling face and conniving plans? “Of course I did, I’m sorry, Moira. I’ve been… busy.”

“Smooching your new boyfriend?” Moira puckered her lips, loud kissy noises catching the attention of Darwin and a few mingling library customers.

“ _Moira,_ ” Charles hissed, swatting her arm with a textbook. “Please don’t tease, I’m not in the mood.”

Moira set the donut box down on the counter. She was wearing her uniform: a smart brown skirt-suit and flat shoes, hair swept back with an Alice band. “What’s the matter?” She tipped her head in concern. “You look like death.”

“Thank you for that,” Charles snorted in annoyance, though he knew it was true. A last minute stop by the mirror this morning had revealed the heavy bags shadowing his eyes, the pale sheen to his skin. He hadn’t bothered to tame his hair, allowing it to flick and curl every which way. The flesh of his lips was red raw where he had bitten away layers of skin, only stopping to chew his nails when his lips were too painful to nibble. He was exhausted, undernourished, and nervous.

“What’s happened?” Circling around the desk, Moira dropped into a chair beside him, her warm hands cupping his. “Is this about the man you met in the café? What has he done to you, Charles?”

Smiling at the stern tone of her voice, Charles shook his head. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t hurt me. It’s just…” He broke off with a shrug, pulling his hands away. “I have to break up with him.”

“Why?” Moira’s mouth dropped in dismay, her expressions always so animated. “The way you disappeared, I was expecting you to say you were off having the time of your life.”

“It’s complicated.” Even Charles cringed at the words, shrinking back into his chair as Moira frowned.

“Don’t make me go all Bad Cop on you, Charles. I hate police stereotypes.”

“You’re the one eating doughnuts, Moira. You can’t get any more stereotypical than that.”

“Don’t sass me, Xavier.” She pulled her chair closer, metal legs scraping on the floor. “Talk to me. You know you can tell me anything.”

“It’s… bad.” Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose, and Moira growled in exasperation.

“Bad _how_? Is he an asshole to you? Does he like heavy trance music and movies about boobs and guns? Is he rubbish in bed? Is he -”

“I’m projecting to him.” The words blurted past his lips before Charles could bite them back, a fierce rush of breath forcing them from his lungs. “I make him think I can stand and walk. He’s never seen my wheelchair and he doesn’t know I’m paralysed. I’ve been lying to him all this time, making him see me in places I’m not, and I can’t stop, and I don’t know what to do, and it’s killing me, Moira.”

Silence roared against his eardrums. Moira just stared, her lips parted in shock, the whirl of her mind a confused jumble of conflicting emotions. Charles held his breath, waiting for the heated sting of her angry words -

\- and was instead met with arms folding around his neck, Moira’s hair a sweet-smelling tickle against his nose. No pity in her thoughts, only understanding, concern. A streak of disappointment and upset, naturally, though Charles could handle that when it wasn’t being lanced through his stomach.

“You are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.” Sinking back into her seat with a sad, fond smile, Moira sighed and leaned her elbows on her knees. “Why did you do it?”

“Reflex. I didn’t even mean to. Erik waltzed into my life all athletic and tall and sweaty from a run, and there’s me with my books and my blazers and my… these.” He poked at his legs, and Moira instantly slapped his hand.

“Charles, stop it. We talked about this.” Stern again now, that spark of red-black anger bubbling to the forefront. “If you honestly think Erik is the type of person to shy away from someone in a wheelchair, then he isn’t worth your time. Did you get that impression?”

“I was frightened, Moira.”

“So, what? You’re just never going to show yourself to a potential partner because you’re frightened they won’t like you for who you are?”

Charles was reminded painfully of Raven and Angel, remembering how his sister’s face had split with relief and pure, glowing happiness, her bare arms blue and scaled and slinging around Angel’s shoulders. To finally have someone who accepted her and her mutation as one beautiful package: it had set Raven free.

Charles squirmed with jealousy, dropping defeated eyes to the paperwork spread across his desk. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You have to stop feeling so ashamed of who you are. I can’t begin to understand what it must feel like to go through even half of what you have, but how are other people supposed to accept you when you won’t even accept yourself.” She brought one of Charles’ hands to her mouth, not quite kissing the pale skin but letting it press against her lips as she continued to speak. “That accident could have killed you, Charles, don’t forget that. So what if we won’t be able to do embarrassing can-can’s at nightclubs any more; you’re here, you’re alive, and there’s still so much you can do if you just drop the self-pity and get on with your life. I’m here for you, and your sister is too, and we love you even when you make mammoth mistakes like this.”

Charles swallowed around the hard lump forming in his throat, a watery smile wobbling the corners of his lips. There was nothing he could say to such a speech - he knew every word of it was true. If he gave up, allowed himself to be drawn under by the crush of depression and stress, then he was giving up on his friends and family just as much as himself.

“Thank you.”

Moira waved the sentiment away. “For what? Kicking your butt when it gets too close to my boot? That’s what I’m here for, right?

“Now this Erik guy - ” Moira’s voice had become velveteen once more, her mind a gentle caress like the hand of a lover on his cheek, “ - You have two options: tell him the truth or break it off before you hurt him any more. I hate to use those words, but that’s what you’re doing.”

“I know.” Charles toyed with a pencil on his desk, his hands automatically predisposed to fidgeting when he became nervous. “I’ve been trying to break up with him for over a week, but every time I start to tell him I panic. Or he does or says something so wonderful that I tell myself another date won’t hurt.”

“Every day you push this will only make it harder on both of you, Charles. You’ll end up married with adopted twins before you finally blurt it out. Think how much it would hurt if it got serious.” She paused, a curious eyebrow arching. “Is it serious yet?”

Charles kept his eyes on the pencil. “That all depends what you mean by serious.”

Moira tutted irritably and pulled the pencil away. “Have you slept with him?”

“Not exactly.”

“Charles, for Christ’s sake. Will you stop being so elusive? We’re not 15 anymore.”

“No, but we are in the middle of a very public library. And I can assure you that my intern is doing his very best to listen in to our conversation.” Charles’ eyes flicked swiftly to Darwin, who immediately vanished behind a bookshelf. Sighing heavily through his nose, Charles lowered his voice and leaned a tired elbow on his desk.

“We haven’t had… _sex_ sex. We just kind of…” He made a vague motion with his hand.

“Humped?”

“More or less.”

Moira hummed thoughtfully. “I’d say that’s pretty serious. Did you… you know?”

“No. He did, though.” Charles added a little too quickly.

“Like I’d have thought anything else.” Flashing him a wink, Moira reached back to tug her Alice band free, scrubbing a hand through her hair and leaving little flecks of confectioners sugar behind. “You really can’t leave this any longer.”

She stretched across to kiss the tip of Charles’ nose. “If he’s worth his salt, he’ll understand. Just don‘t expect him to take it so easily. Some serious grovelling may be in order.”

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Charles nodded toward the forgotten pink box. “I think I’ll have that doughnut now.”

 

\----

 

Bollocks to Einstein and his theory of relativity. It was just so _unfair_. How an hour of pleasure could seem little more than a second, yet waiting for the dreaded tick of the clock to hit 8 PM dragged by in a daze of stomach-churning sickness and nail biting.

It was impossible to mentally prepare for such an evening. Charles tidied the house from top to bottom in a bid to keep himself sane, even venturing into the bathroom armed with mops and high-strength bleach. He tossed Raven’s laundry and shoes into her room, shutting the door tight. She was spending the night at Angel’s, much to his relief. It would be bad enough should Erik get angry, never mind contending with a snarling Raven at the same time.

Knocking back his third nerve-calming scotch of the evening, Charles grimaced as the alcohol blazed his throat and settled like a fiery heat in his stomach. The damn clock must be lying: quarter to 8 and counting. Smoothing down his shirt, simple white linen that was worn and comfortable at the elbows, Charles wheeled himself beside the door. And waited.

He had his speech practised. A heartfelt apology that he had gone over with Moira at least a dozen times, followed by a short and bare-boned plea and confession. If it didn’t work, Erik was free to leave with his wounded heart in his hands, and Charles - at Moira’s insistence - would just have to pack himself up and start all over again.

The nauseating idea of never seeing Erik again almost had Charles retreating back to his bottle of scotch --

No time: a sharp rap on the door sent ice cascading through his nerves, and Charles wrenched the door open before Erik had even lowered his fist.

The two men blinked at one another, projected blue locked with grey-green. Then Erik was smiling and holding out a hand. “Hello, Charles.”

“Erik.” Charles clasped it tight before rolling his chair back to let Erik inside. If there was any tension in the air then Erik didn‘t seem to notice, sauntering inside in a few lean strides. He cast his eyes over the hall, small smile widening at the sight of childhood pictures of Charles and Raven on the walls. All ruddy cheeks and wild eyes, Raven holding the camera at arms length to get them both in shot.

Charles showed him through to the sitting room, keeping a safe distance behind to stop himself running Erik over should the taller man stop suddenly. Erik’s gaze took in the cramped space, the couch crammed with patterned cushions, the jumble of books and knick-knacks and well-kempt houseplants. Photographs everywhere, mostly of Charles and Raven, a couple including Moira and some of Raven’s friends. No family portraits: neither of them had wished to hang those on their walls.

Erik sat when offered, graceful hands folding in his lap. “You said you needed to talk to me. Is everything alright?”

This was it. Flutter of terrified wings in his stomach, bile searing away the taste of alcohol.

_Say it._

“Erik--” Charles struggled to undo his tangled tongue, breathing past the icy hand clenching around his neck. “I need to tell you - I need to say - I --”

**_Say_** it.

“Would you like a drink?” Flinching at the awkward tumble of clumsy words, Charles hurried out into the kitchen before Erik’s affirmation even reached his ears. 

Stupid. _Stupid._

It was cooler out in the kitchen, one window left open a crack to let in the blistering November air. Charles wished he could climb out of it, leave Erik a hastily written note and shimmy down the fire escape to freedom. 

He and Moira had covered the bulk of the speech, how to round it up and plead his case as well as accept his mistakes, but neither of them had touched upon starting it. When was the best time? Over drinks? Dinner? Shout it into the night when Erik left later? Charles tugged open at a few buttons of his shirt, the oppressive heat of his own skin unbearable.

He didn’t notice the soft tap of approaching shoes, too lost in his own mind to even think about the source of the new colours entering his head -- the click and whirr of an electric appliance.

It wasn’t until he caught the soft gasp of shock, the blur and fuzz of confusion, that he turned to see Erik in the doorway

with a camera in his hand.

And like that, it was over. 

Charles’ blood turned to fire then ice then lead, jack-hammering pulse so loud in his ears that it blocked out the rumble of New York traffic filtering in through the open window.

Erik was staring down at the digital display, mouth shaping a perfect ‘o’. Charles’ head screamed at him to pounce, rip apart the wires of newly formed memory and make Erik forget he even owned a God damned camera. It was entirely possible for him to force Erik into thinking what he saw on that digital display was the same thing he saw when he looked up: a smart, rosy-cheeked projection. But -- no. Charles’ body sagged with exhaustion, a fatigue that settled deep in his bones.

Enough hiding. He couldn’t take it any longer.

Erik knew the truth. An odd mixture of relief swarmed with the guilt and sadness plaguing Charles’ heart. He didn’t have to lie anymore.

“I always wondered.” Erik’s voice was barely audible, eyes still staring down at the image of Charles sat in his chair of metal and padded leather. “Right when we first met, I wondered.”

Charles stayed quiet, hands palm-up in his lap, and listened. His prepared speech went forgotten.

“Our date at the Chessboard: I felt it. There, then gone.” Erik didn’t shout nor scream, remaining deathly calm. Charles could almost see the cogs of understanding turning in his mind. “Your clothes never quite matched up. Zippers, buttons… I thought maybe they were plastic. When we went ice-skating, it was like you weren’t even there at all. I saw the watch on your wrist but I couldn‘t feel it.”

Something wet landed on Charles’ cheek. He kept his eyes straight ahead, locked on the little camera clutched in Erik’s hands.

“You looked different sometimes: your hair would change. Your nails were less bitten. You smiled more. I didn’t understand at first. I never imagined anything like this.” Erik looked up suddenly, pinning Charles with the intensity of his eyes. “Show me.”

Charles didn’t bother to fight. The wheelchair bled into view, his projected twin seeping away to nothing. Erik’s power touched the chair almost tentatively. Curiosity, disbelief -- colours that meshed and swirled until they were nothing but grey, like an artist’s pallet washed together. Quiet inspection, a radar picking out every nut and bolt as though testing its authenticity. Charles shut his eyes and let go of Erik’s mind, imagining himself opening his hand to let once-tight reins fall to the ground.

Erik jerked his head and the chair moved forward, its wheels gliding noiselessly over the kitchen tiles. Such a personal action should have felt invasive to Charles, a rude breech of his dignity -- but the thought alone made him snort ironically. He’d plundered Erik’s mind far too much for him to complain about something as stupid as personal space.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Erik’s glare drilled into the top of Charles’ head, searing through hair and bone and blood.

Charles‘ voice was deadpan when he answered. “I was frightened.” 

“Of what?”

“Myself. You. Everything.”

A growl of irritation rumbled deep at the back of Erik‘s throat. Dark shadows cut lines in his brow as he let the camera drop to the counter, its digital screen fading to black. “I knew the chair was there when I first approached you, Charles. I sensed it. I _saw_ it.”

“It wasn’t there when you met me at the library before my accident.”

“People change. What happened to you?

\-- _dazzling flash of headlights and the scream of brakes; a thud, the sickening sensation of falling; then nothing nothing nothing_ \--

Charles let his eyes flicker briefly shut, coughing to clear the words from his throat. “Car accident.”

Erik turned away, his knuckles white where they gripped the counter top. Charles could still sense a curious nudge of the man‘s power testing the chair, systematically searching for weak spots. “When you stood up, I just assumed that I’d been wrong and the chair wasn’t yours after all. I wouldn’t have given a fuck, Charles. I liked you. I was interested in you. The chair meant nothing.”

Charles attempted to inch forward, his hands closing around the wheels: the chair didn’t move. Stuck fast as though rooted to the spot.

“You lied to me. _Controlled_ me.” Erik‘s voice was low enough that Charles had to strain to catch the words. They stung, tiny beestings up his neck, but he forced himself to listen. “Did you really think that I was one of the judgmental assholes I despise? That I would see you as anything other than beautiful?”

“I wasn’t thinking at all, Erik. I just--”

Erik interrupted him sharply, “How long?”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean?”

“How long have you been disabled?”

Hearing the word spoken aloud made Charles inwardly cringe. He sucked in a breath, lifting his chin. “Six months. It was my half year anniversary the day I met you.”

Erik grunted, a low noise of understanding. His eyes remained clouded where they fixed on the toaster. “Long before he was taken to the Home, my father was confined to a wheelchair when the Alzheimer‘s became too fierce.” Erik shared the image: an old man with Erik‘s sharp jaw and grey-green eyes, hunched in a what looked like a homemade wheelchair. Had Erik made that for him? The idea was touching and more than a little sad, the joints of the chair not quite as smooth as they would have been after just a few more years worth of practise. Crafted from scrap metals, steel and iron and copper mixed to a burnished bronze colour, the chair was a bulky thing with a hollow for Mr. Lehnsherr’s teacup and the various bottles of pills and syrups he needed to take every day. “We worked it out: a system that suited both of us. I never once looked at him and pitied him for what he was. I was so proud of him for fighting.”

A tear rolled down to drip from Charles’ chin. 

“I trained in physical therapy before I came here,” Erik continued quietly. “I saw people -- men and women even younger than yourself -- break apart and piece themselves back together. I witnessed the struggle they went through, the barriers they pushed past. I’ve spent half my life around wheelchair users, Charles. Aren’t you supposed to be a telepath? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry--” Charles pushed on the chairs wheels again but they remained immobile. “I panicked. I made a terrible mistake.”

“A mistake.” Erik finally looked up, a sneer twisting his mouth. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. You were so stunning, so charming. Nobody had really flirted with me like that in months and I just -- I acted on impulse.” Charles let hands drop heavily to his lap, the force of his sigh sagging his shoulders. “I didn’t expect our second date to go so wonderfully, and then I couldn’t _stop_. You intrigued me more than anyone I‘d met in years. It all snowballed after that: I couldn’t say no to you.”

“The other night--”

“Was real. Please do not think you imagined that.”

Erik didn’t answer, even as he slid -- defeated -- down the counter to slump on the cold floor tiles. His mind remained unsure, prickling with fractured trust. Charles absently chewed his lower lip, hands clenching with the urge to touch him. The cold void between them was unbearable, a crackle of static that set his hair on edge.

“Are you going to leave me?” The question hung between them, an ultimatum that terrified Charles more than anything he‘d faced in his life. 

“I should.” Erik’s moved at last, stretching out a hand to brush the tear track from Charles’ face. The skin of his thumb was calloused and rough: Charles longed to kiss it. “I should… but I won’t.”

Charles hiccoughed, not quite daring to believe his betraying ears. “What?”

“I don’t want to leave you, Charles.” Pent-up, angry energy seeped from Erik’s skin in a river of watery red. “Maybe I’m being stupid, a sentimental fool, but I don’t want to leave you.

“I can’t say I fully understand why you did what you did, but then… I can’t say I fully understand what it’s like to be in your situation, either.” Erik leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, legs as far stretched as possible in such a small space. “My dad, the people I worked with; I’ve seen it, but I’ve never experienced the disability myself. How can I honestly say I understand the complex emotions it comes with?”

Charles brought his hand up to cover the longer fingers still cupping his cheek, pressing into their warmth. “I think you understand more than you give yourself credit for.”

Erik’s brow furrowed at a sudden thought. “When we went to the Park -- could other people see me dancing by myself on the ice?”

Charles’ smiled sadly, shaking his head. “No. They saw what you saw.”

Erik‘s hand slid away to rest on Charles‘ knee. “So even your ghost can’t skate.”

Charles snorted, a weak burst of laughter that brought a fresh wave of sadness along with it. “The shadow is only as useless as the one that casts it.”

Erik sighed, the heat in his gaze softening. Pain still lingered behind his eyes, but the once-fierce flare of anger had dimmed to a dull smudge of rolling colour. “Don’t say that. These last two weeks… they’ve been wonderful, Charles. You discovered more about me in that short time than most people I’ve known my whole life.”

“Because I can read your mind?”

“Because you asked about me. You made an effort to get to know me even though you could have plucked it all out of my mind. And I appreciate that. You more than anyone should know how difficult it is to find a decent soul in this world.” Erik tipped his head back against the drawers with a muffled thud. “What you did… I won’t hold it against you. It hurt, probably more than I’d care to admit: but it’s a pain that can heal.”

Charles could already see the shimmering blue-grey bubble of forgiveness budding in Erik’s mind. He recoiled from it as though burned.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness.” He traced the lines of Erik’s fingers, shaping delicately tapered nails and slim knuckles. 

Erik shook his head softly. “You know you’d have it if you did.”

“I don’t think I want it just yet. Please. Let me feel like I’ve earned it.”

Erik offered a small smile at that. “It won’t be easy, and there are thing’s we’ll have to work out. Where we can and can’t go on dates, what you’re physically capable of. Family, friends, my nomadic lifestyle.” Erik shrugged. “I can adjust if you can.”

_Adjust_. Charles had already had to adjust to so much, so quickly. The loss of his legs, of his true sense of independence: it had all hit him hard, crushed his spirit like the fragile bones of a bird. Gone was his playboy lifestyle, the blasé confidence he threw around. He’d hidden away in his room -- a broken mouse too timid to face up to the harsh light of day.

Then Erik had came along, and there was the hope he thought he’d lost, the passion he’d believed destroyed. Even beneath the woven layers of his lie, Charles had dared to open to Erik, and found a shy heart in return. 

He didn’t need to adjust. He only needed to accept.

Perhaps he had projected that last part, because Erik was finally shifting onto his knees and drawing Charles’ head down into a tentative kiss. Closed lips damp from tears, nothing more than a chaste press of skin to skin. 

“We can work through this together, Charles.” The words were breathed into his mouth, Erik’s hand warm and broad on the back of Charles’ neck. “We have to trust each other if we want this to work.”

“I _do_ trust you,” Charles protested.

“Enough that you projected yourself to me? That’s not trust, is it?”

Charles hung his head until Erik nudged his chin with a curled finger. Something slid out of his pocket without him ever having to reach for it, a low song vibrating at the back of Charles’ mind. Something metal. 

“I don’t know why I kept this.” Erik held the object out: the small silver rose that Erik had crafted from the fork on their first date at the Chessboard. “Sentimental value -- or maybe because it would have made awkward conversation if the waiter saw what had happened to the restaurant’s cutlery.”

Charles stared down at the artificial flower, stunned to see it again. Such a beautiful thing, hard to believe it had once been anything other than cupped petals and blunt thorns. 

He knew what Erik was trying to say with the gift. Something so delicate in appearance, truly stronger than steel. It would never wilt, never tire, only giving in to the decay of rust if left uncared for. 

Charles’ lips wobbled into a smile as he let the rose fall into his palm, its silver stem surprisingly warm. “You really are a sentimental bugger at heart, aren’t you.”

Erik shrugged, almost playfully. “I can melt it down if you’d prefer I was cold and impassive all the time.”

And Charles was smiling and pulling Erik to him, the rose catching the overhead lamplight to throw a shower of diamond sparks across Erik’s back. He let his eyes fall shut, the scent of Erik’s skin like coffee and copper. 

No more lies. No more hiding. 

Just acceptance, and the heavy weight of Erik’s arms around him.

No more smoke and mirrors.

  



End file.
